FROM MARRYING JEZEBEL

The Pool of London, December 1824.

A droplet of rainwater clung annoyingly from the tip of Raphael Sunderland's patrician nose, cold rivulets following the lines of his scowl as he glared across the wharf.

Still no sign of the girl.

Most of the other passengers had already disembarked from the ship he was watching, but so far the young lady he'd come to meet had yet to show her face, and Rafe was getting tired of waiting. He was the bloody duke of Ravenhurst, for God's sake. His family had owned most of the counties of Derby, Middlebury, and even parts of Somerset since the fifteenth century and as the seventh duke to inherit title to these estates, he was indubitably one of the largest landowners in all of England. He was also sole proprietor of enough profitable business ventures, including various coal mines, textile factories and shipping concerns, to employ a small army of clerks. He'd long ago been crowned the best catch of any Season by society's ever-hopeful matrons.

He did not cool his heels at the pleasure of little girls.

Impatient, aggravated, he'd left his carriage to pace the docks of London Harbor, watching as the passengers filed down the gangway of the clipper ship one after another. What on earth is the holdup? he griped to himself. Then he saw. One of the passengers was being carried down the plank on a stretcher, obviously too weak to walk. Could it be she? he wondered. The pang of concern he felt belied his earlier annoyance. Then, as two sailors tilted the stretcher down to begin the descent to the pier, he saw that the sick passenger was an elderly gentleman, and Rafe relaxed with a sense of guilty relief. He might not have much information about the young person who was to become his new ward, but he doubted Miss Jezebel Montclair, niece of the late earl of Clifton, looked much like this unfortunate old man.

God knew what the girl would look like, Rafe snorted. All he knew was what he'd learned two nights ago, when his country retreat in Derbyshire had been interrupted late in the evening by an unannounced visitor.

* * *

A knock on the library door shattered Rafe's meditative musings. He'd just been reflecting on how quiet things were, how orderly, and he had even managed to convince himself that he liked it. All is exactly as it should be , he'd been telling himself firmly only seconds before the insistent rapping began. After he heard it, he mentally amended the statement. All except that infernal banging.

Ensconced in his favorite hunter-green leather chair, sipping a finely aged brandy, he had, as a matter of fact, just been on the verge of nodding off. Wedged deeply into another overstuffed library chair, his best friend in the world was dozing nearby in the cozy fire-lit chamber, sharing his repose, if not his thoughts.

At the sound of the knock, Damien Marksley, titled marquis of Rutledge (named less formally a profligate wastrel with a propensity for practical jokes) shifted, scratched, and belched good-naturedly from the confines of his own wing-backed seat before the hearth. Damien owned lands adjacent to Rafe's own, and the two close friends often passed a winter evening drinking or playing chess companionably by the fire.

After a day of stag hunting in the parklands and an afternoon celebrating their catch with some rather appreciative maids down at the village tavern, both were worn and sated this evening. Neither one felt the need to speak, the late hour and the soporifics they'd consumed making them very somnolent gentlemen indeed.

The fire was crackling merrily in Rafe's library, sending mellow light to caress the book-lined walls and rich mahogany furnishings. Outside the mullioned windows, the weather had turned wretched, rain and hail intermingling in the bluster of late December, but in that bastion of masculine warmth and comfort, Rafe and his friend had basked like lazy lizards until the loud knocking startled them into alertness.

Who could be calling at such an hour, Rafe wondered, and in such inclement weather?

A moment later his country butler, Smythe, called out from outside the heavy wooden panels of the library's double doors to announce the arrival of a visitor. Odd, Rafe thought, just a bit disturbed. I wasn't expecting anyone. It was past one o'clock in the morning. He and Damien exchanged startled glances. "Who the devil could that be?" muttered Rafe. The marquis, apparently mystified but already getting a sly gleam of curiosity in the merry gray eyes for which he was famed among the ton, simply shrugged. "This had better not be one of your practical jokes, Damien. I'm in no mood to be picking toads out of my Hessians again, I warn you..."

But Smythe, well trained in the art of butlery, knew better than to disturb his master's pleasures unless the matter was urgent, so Rafe assumed he couldn't safely ignore the knock and return to the happy doze which it had shattered. Irritated, he called to the old retainer to allow his visitor entrance, growling grumpily to himself, "This had better be good."

In a subdued rush, Mr. Alduous P. Chumley, Esq., Rafe's solicitor and loyal man of business for more than a decade entered the room, shaking off a deluge of raindrops and apologizing profusely for the late hour. The duke sat up straighter in his chair, waking up a little as his interest was piqued. Midnight meetings were definitely not among Chumley's ordinary business practices, and Rafe's curiosity, always keen, grew by leaps and bounds. Thankfully, he did not have to wait long to satisfy it. After bowing deeply to both peers, the man leapt right in to the subject at hand.

"Your Grace, I would not have dreamed of interrupting your lordships at such an hour, but a matter of the utmost importance has come to my attention, and I am sure it cannot be properly settled by anyone except yourself...." The man trailed off, looking flustered and wringing his hands. A silence followed his words as the solicitor shuffled uncomfortably. The duke had not offered him a seat, and he clearly dared not presume enough to take one of his own accord. Raindrops plopped dolefully onto the dark plum and gold-accented Aubusson carpet as he waited.

Realizing this, Rafe impatiently waved Chumley to the chaise lounge set at a right angle to the two men's chairs along one wall of the room. He tried not to wince at the thought of the antique gold silk sofa absorbing Chumley's excess moisture. The man sat hurriedly before the peers, fidgeting a little under Rafe's steady gaze and the marquis's avid one. One eyebrow quirked, Rafe drawled, "And that matter might be...?"

"Your Grace," the solicitor removed some papers from his greatcoat pocket and adjusted his spectacles as he squinted to read what was written on the crumpled page. "I am sorry to inform you that Jonathan Montclair, the late earl of Clifton, has passed on." He looked up worriedly, as if expecting the news to be a devastating blow to his employer.

"Montclair," Rafe murmured. "The archaeologist?" At the solicitor's nod, he frowned. "I remember him vaguely... hasn't he been in the Far East for the past several years?"

"Egypt, Your Grace. I've just received word of his untimely demise this night by special courier." The duke stared steadily at his solicitor. Untimely? But Jonathan Montclair couldn't have been a day under seventy, he thought to himself. And why, he wondered, would Lord Clifton possibly want to arrange for me to have word of his death? The two men had not been close for ages; in fact, had shared only a rather brief acquaintance years ago when Rafe had, on a whim, joined one of the many societies in London devoted to cultural exploration and the study of antiquities."

Perhaps," he said softly, "you will care to explain why this news has warranted a visit so late at night, and in such an agitated state?"

The rebuke in the duke's voice was gentle, but felt nonetheless by his unfortunate man of business. Lord Ravenhurst was not a man one cared to disappoint, as Chumley was well aware. The time had come to get to the heart of the matter. He swallowed.

"Well, Your Grace, it seems he has left you a rather unusual inheritance." He did not continue, looking vaguely ill at being the bearer of such bad tidings.

"Good God, man, what could be so awful? What has he left me?"

"His niece, Your Grace."

Rafe choked on his brandy.