The Rebel and the Rake

Book 0: League of Scoundrels

by Emily Sullivan

Genres: Siblings; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Fans of Netflix’s Bridgerton series will love this enchanting story of a spy who finds himself entangled with the most intriguing bluestocking—from the series that delivers “both emotional intensity and lush sensuality, and vivacious writing enhanced by ample measures of wit”. (Booklist, Starred Review)

Rafe Davies might seem like just another charismatic rake, but in reality, he is one of the crown’s most valuable agents. As relentless as he is reckless, Rafe has never come upon a mission he couldn’t complete. But when he encounters the intriguing-yet-prickly lady’s companion Miss Sylvia Sparrow while on assignment at a Scottish house party, he finds himself thoroughly distracted by the secretive beauty.

Though most women would be thrilled to catch the eye of a tall, dark, and dangerously handsome man, Sylvia is through with that sort of adventure. She trusted the wrong man once and paid for it dearly. The fiery bluestocking is resolved to avoid Rafe, until a chance encounter between them reveals the normally irreverent man’s unexpected depths—and an attraction that’s impossible to ignore. But when Sylvia begins to suspect she isn’t the only one harboring a few secrets, she realizes that Rafe may pose a risk to far more than her heart.

Release date: December 28, 2021

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

October 1897
A village near Glasgow, Scotland

Sylvia Sparrow bolted from her work space, which was tucked away in a corner of Castle Blackwood’s cavernous library, and rushed down one of its many hallowed halls toward the upstairs drawing room. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late. Though it seemed unnecessary that someone as inconsequential as a lady’s companion should be present for tea, her host, Mr. Wardale, had insisted after she had been absent the last few days—and even Sylvia wasn’t bold enough to question one of the wealthiest men in England. As her serviceable leather boots thudded against the fine carpet, she prayed no one else caught her in such a state.

She had spent the last several hours transcribing her notes from this morning’s session with her employer, Mrs. Crawford, which had covered a rather fascinating stint in Paris during the Second Empire, and had quite lost herself in the older woman’s recollections. The septuagenarian had lived a life marked by romance, intrigue, and heartbreak and had finally decided to publish her exploits after a well-known publisher expressed interest, along with a hefty advance. It wasn’t the usual set of duties for a companion, but Sylvia had first honed her secretarial skills while helping her late father with his academic work and was happy to provide assistance. She had also become an excellent typist during a brief stint working for a barrister in London after finishing her studies at Somerville College and had further developed her writing abilities while contributing a column to a weekly suffragist newspaper—but Sylvia had left out those little details during the interview process.

As far as Mrs. Crawford knew, she had hired the well-educated but genteelly impoverished daughter of a deceased country scholar. Not a woman who had once enjoyed a very independent London life complete with a room in a ladies’ boardinghouse, fascinating friends, and a scandalous romance of her own.

And Sylvia was determined to keep it that way.

As she drew closer to the drawing room, Sylvia paused before a large gilt-framed mirror to smooth back a few loose strands of her unremarkable brown hair and straighten her navy tie. There. Now she looked perfectly respectable. No need to advertise that she was the kind of woman who raced down hallways in grand castles. That wasn’t the sort of thing one should announce about oneself. Sylvia took a deep breath and continued on, taking care not to move too quickly.

Mr. Wardale preferred to host afternoon tea in a large, light-filled room that was part of the castle’s newest wing, built sometime during the Regency. Sylvia had never met the eccentric millionaire before this trip, but he was a common fixture in both the business and gossip sections of the papers. Based on what she had observed thus far, he lived up to his reputation as a man with a healthy appetite for both work and play.

Sylvia entered and immediately searched for Lady Georgiana Arlington, who was Mrs. Crawford’s niece by marriage and her childhood friend. It was thanks to Georgiana that Sylvia was here at all and not living under her brother’s thumb. Or worse.

Her friend was conversing with two other ladies on the opposite side of the room. All three were elegantly clad in airy afternoon gowns, but Georgiana, who possessed both a discerning eye and a comely figure, looked like a fashion plate come to life. Sylvia’s dull tweed skirt and matching vest made her feel uncommonly dowdy by comparison. She stopped a few feet away and clasped her hands, which were becoming clammier by the second. The other ladies didn’t give her any notice, but Georgiana caught her eye and nodded slightly.

While she waited, Sylvia pretended to be interested in a painting of a single brown horse in a field mounted on a nearby wall, just one of many at the castle.

“Terrible, isn’t it?”

She turned swiftly to find Mr. Wardale by her shoulder. “No, sir. It has an…an…Arcadian charm.”

“Don’t spare my feelings, Miss Sparrow.” He chuckled. “I had no hand in decorating this room. All credit should be given to the previous owner. In fact, I must insist upon it.” Mr. Wardale’s smooth voice bore no trace of the accent he must have had growing up. He was widely considered to be one of London’s most charming bachelors—if a tad eccentric—who had successfully evaded the marriage trap, though many a debutante had set her cap for him over the years. Even now in late middle age with his blond hair thickly streaked with silver, he still exuded an innate vitality that made him seem years younger—and an intensity that was, at times, unnerving.

“And here I thought you simply had an inordinate interest in bulldogs and brown horses,” she replied, attempting a wry smile.

Amusement flickered in the man’s dark gaze as he leaned closer. “If I had any interest in art, I assure you my tastes would be a tad more…eclectic.”

Sylvia couldn’t help but shrink a little under his attention, along with the suggestive note in his voice. Why on earth had he bothered to approach her, of all people? This room was filled with the very cream of society, if one was impressed by that sort of thing.

“How is your work with Mrs. Crawford progressing?”

“Very well, sir.”

“A fascinating woman. I’m quite looking forward to reading her memoirs.” He grinned, and it brought to mind a powerful jungle cat toying with its prey. “If you need anything—pens, paper, more typewriter ribbons—please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Sylvia nodded. “Thank you. That is too kind.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wardale.” Georgiana’s greeting put her immediately at ease.

“My lady,” the man said with a courtly bow. “I understand you were among the party that walked to the falls this morning.”

“We started to but then turned back at the threat of thunderclouds.” She cast a contemptuous glance toward the window, which was now filled with blue sky and sunshine. “The weather is so changeable here. I’m hoping to mount another attempt tomorrow.”

In addition to her philanthropic work, Georgiana was known for her seemingly boundless energy, which she applied to everything from planning a lavish charity ball to a simple afternoon picnic. It was a trait Sylvia didn’t share with her friend. She would much rather curl up alone with a good book and a cup of tea than traipse around the forest or attend a ball, not that Sylvia had ever been invited to one.

“A fine idea.”

They exchanged a few more empty pleasantries before their host moved on.

Sylvia let out a breath once he was out of earshot. “You certainly took your time.”

“Once Lady Delacorte starts talking, it’s difficult to get a word in. But I wouldn’t think conversing with Mr. Wardale is exactly a hardship.”

“No, but I can’t imagine why he bothered with me.”

Georgiana gave her an amused look before changing the subject. “I think Aunt Violet noticed your late arrival. You got lost in your work, didn’t you?”

“I was reviewing the notes I made this morning,” Sylvia admitted. “Your aunt was telling me how she met her second husband. The one who knew Manet.”

“Oh, yes.” Georgiana laughed. “The Comte who was actually a civil servant’s son. I love that story.”

“I think he was her favorite of the lot.”

“Well, all he did was make up an identity to impress her. The other three husbands were far more destructive.”

The late Mr. Crawford, her last––and, she often stressed, final husband, had made a number of poor investments before having the decency to die, which had further induced Mrs. Crawford to publish her memoirs.

“Yet another point for eternal spinsterhood,” Sylvia quipped.

Georgiana ignored the remark and subtly gestured to Sylvia’s hands. “You forgot your gloves again.”

Sylvia’s cheeks heated as she rubbed at the ink stain on her finger. “So I did.” It had been ages since she’d had any reason to bother with the conventions of polite society. Back home at Hawthorne Cottage, she had never worn gloves, as they were hardly practical when completing the many household chores that needed to be done. Tomorrow she must bring the blasted things with her.

What does it matter? No one here would mistake you for a lady.

She was nothing more than a glorified secretary. And lucky for that.

“Here comes the grande dame now,” Georgiana muttered. Sylvia quickly put her hands behind her back and turned to greet her employer.

“There you are, Miss Sparrow,” the older woman bellowed as she shuffled toward them. She leaned heavily on her cane, likely weighed down by the massive necklace, earrings, and bracelets she insisted on wearing no matter the occasion, but anyone who thought her enfeebled quickly learned otherwise. “I trust you finished this morning’s notes?”

“Very nearly, Mrs. Crawford. I had to stop in order to come here.”

The woman let out a disappointed huff. “Well, see that you have something for me to review by this evening.”

Sylvia bowed her head. “Of course, madam.”

Mrs. Crawford gave a sniff of approval. “Come along, then,” she ordered, before turning away to accost another guest.

“I think someone wants a little bedtime reading,” Georgiana whispered.

Sylvia stifled a laugh. “Who can blame her? You should have seen the glint in her eyes when she talked about the ‘not-Comte.’ She made a particular point to tell me he had the largest hands she had ever seen.”

Georgiana barely had time to smother a most unladylike snort into her handkerchief. “Oh, bless the old dragon. I’m actually starting to be glad I came,” she added under her breath.

Mrs. Crawford had insisted Georgiana accompany them to Scotland, arguing that the viscountess had been spreading herself too thin between her charitable endeavors. Georgiana reluctantly agreed, mostly for Sylvia’s benefit.

Before Sylvia could respond, she was interrupted by the entrance of several maids pushing tea carts. Georgiana nimbly stepped away. “Oh, you must try the jam tarts.”

As they moved to join Mrs. Crawford, a group of men who had been sitting by the massive stone fireplace rose. She barely spared them a glance at first. It would be the same mix of pallid, weak-chinned aristocrats as the day before. Mr. Wardale wasn’t exactly eclectic when it came to the company he kept. But as the group approached the tea carts, Sylvia noticed a man she had privately dubbed “Lord Lecher” after his tendency to openly stare at ladies’ chests conversing with someone and cheerfully slapping him on the back. The recipient had stooped to meet Lord Lecher’s middling height, but now he laughed and fully straightened, displaying every impressive inch of his lean, long-muscled form.

How on earth had he escaped her notice?

They had been at Castle Blackwood for a number of days, and in that time, Sylvia had not come across any tall, broad-shouldered, and strong-jawed men. But then there had been so much battling for her attentions––settling Mrs. Crawford, repeating everything anyone said to her thrice, and finding the time and space to complete her duties.

It wasn’t until the man gave her a perfectly polite smile and extended his arm to let her pass ahead of him that she realized she had been quite obviously staring. Because not only was he tall, broad-shouldered, and strong-jawed—he was absolutely devastating.

And well he knew it.

“What is keeping you, child?” Mrs. Crawford bellowed over her shoulder.

To her profound embarrassment, Sylvia had come to a very abrupt and very noticeable stop.

The older woman may have had trouble hearing, but she had eyes that rivaled a bird of prey. Now she turned her sharp gaze directly on Sylvia. “Don’t tell me you never encountered a handsome rogue or two in your little village.”

Oh, dear Lord.

Sylvia’s neck grew impossibly hot. It wasn’t that Mrs. Crawford intended to embarrass her. The woman was simply beyond such trivial concerns at this stage of life. A group of bloodthirsty highwaymen could enter the room at this exact moment and she would probably ask which one was the best shot. Now she waved her bejeweled wrist in the man’s direction. “You will have ample opportunity to gape at Mr. Davies during tea, like the rest of us, but for now I need to sit down.”

Sylvia inhaled deeply before she dared to speak. “Of course, Mrs. Crawford. My apologies.” She immediately moved aside to let her employer pass and cast a cautious glance at Mr. Davies. His polite smile now held the barest hint of a smirk, the faint lines around his mouth suggesting he did so often, and their eyes met for one excruciating moment. Long enough to note his were the exact shade of melted chocolate. Then his gaze swiftly moved to Georgiana. Sylvia got the distinct impression that she had been assessed, found wanting, and roundly dismissed.

“Lady Arlington, good afternoon,” he said in a rich baritone that trailed lazily down Sylvia’s spine. “You look as lovely as ever.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, accepting the compliment with her usual grace. “Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Davies.”

“The sentiment is mutual, my lady.” He then arched a dark brow and leaned toward her. “But don’t let your aunt think I’ll forget that ‘rogue’ comment.”

Georgiana gave him one of her famous serene smiles. “Oh dear. I suppose it’s pistols at dawn, then,” she quipped. “Miss Sparrow, will you be my second?”

“It would be an honor,” she mumbled after an awkward pause. As if it weren’t already humiliating enough to have her rather obvious ogling pointed out, she couldn’t just stand there while the man proceeded to flirt with Georgiana.

Without another word, Sylvia strode ahead, dutifully took the teacup a maid handed to her, and sat down beside Mrs. Crawford. Several other guests were already seated, none of whom bothered to acknowledge her. It was just as well. Ladies’ companions weren’t supposed to garner attention from anyone except their employers. As Sylvia took in the finely decorated room, Georgiana approached them, now on the arm of Mr. Davies. He smoothly pulled out the chair beside Sylvia, and Georgiana sat down. No man had ever done such a thing for Sylvia before––not that she had ever wanted one to. She was independent. She could sit in a blasted chair by herself. And yet that slight tightening in her chest was most certainly from envy. Sylvia cast another subtle glance at him through the veil of her lashes and noted sharp cheekbones and a strong, straight nose. She was tempted to call him beautiful, if not for the distinct air of superiority that seemed to emanate from him. Just then the afternoon light glinted off his glossy hair, a shade lighter than his eyes and perfectly styled. There. A flaw. She couldn’t possibly be attracted to a man who paid such exacting attention to his own appearance, even if the results were sublime.

Georgiana flashed him another smile. Her bronze tresses looked even more radiant than usual. “Thank you, sir.” He returned her smile and stepped away.

Sylvia released a breath. Now Mr. Davies would take his unexpected handsomeness and be on his way. Then she could go back to several minutes ago, when she had been entirely unaware of his existence. Unfortunately, the man took a seat directly across from her instead. Their eyes immediately met, and Sylvia barely had time to conceal her surprise as a hot flush fanned out across her cheeks. Of course the fiend noticed. Just as one corner of his full mouth began to turn up, Sylvia pretended to take great interest in the richly patterned carpet. It looked old and expensive, just like everything else in the castle.

“Mr. Davies,” Georgiana began in her cut-glass voice, “allow me to introduce Miss Sparrow, my aunt’s companion.”

Sylvia swallowed her sigh and reluctantly lifted her gaze. Now she’d have to look at him again. And for longer this time.

“Delighted to meet you,” he said, his eyes practically twinkling. “I understand you’ve taken up residence in the library.”

All Sylvia could manage was a nod, as her throat had apparently decided to stop working. He waited a moment, no doubt expecting her to make some kind of vocal response, as was generally expected in social situations, but instead she buried the screaming impulse to keep his attention and looked away. No. Let him think she was an absolute dullard. At that moment a maid appeared with a tray of warm cinnamon-scented buns. Sylvia had never been so thankful for the appearance of pastry. Anything to distract her.

But just as she brought it to her lips, Georgiana leaned over and whispered by her ear, “Mr. Davies is the younger son of the late Earl of Fairfield.”

Sylvia glanced over. He was now talking with Lady Taylor-Smyth, a glamorous widow who hadn’t deigned to acknowledge Sylvia’s presence. She focused on the faint pang of disappointment that lanced through her chest. Of course. Another aristocrat. All the more reason for her to ignore him.

“But his mother was a notorious actress, and the marriage caused a rift with the earl’s older children.”

That was slightly more interesting.

“Rumor has it he joined the Royal Navy under a false name as a boy years ago. Though after his father’s death he developed a predilection for more idle entertainments. Since then he’s been living mostly abroad, but he returned to London last spring. He’s made quite an impression already.”

Just then the woman beside Mr. Davies let out a giddy laugh, and he flashed her a raffish grin. Sylvia had a fine idea of how he managed that.

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me any of this,” she hissed as softly as possible.

Even Georgiana’s shrug was impossibly elegant. “I thought you’d like to know.”

Sylvia’s mouth tightened. “Well, I don’t,” she insisted.

Georgiana looked unconvinced. “Suit yourself.”

“What are you young ladies whispering about?” Mrs. Crawford barked, startling them both. Sylvia began coughing as she nearly choked on her bite of bun, and Mrs. Crawford gave her a look of concern that a stranger could easily confuse for extreme irritation. “You aren’t feeling ill, are you?”

Sylvia coughed a few more times and managed to shake her head. “No, Mrs. Crawford. But thank you for asking.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Davies turn toward her.

“Are you certain? Now you’re turning rather red.” Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice to a mere yell. “Do you need to be sick?”

The older woman was constantly worried about the health of everyone around her but never her own. Sylvia took a breath before answering. “I assure you, I am quite well,” she said, taking care to enunciate each word. Loudly. Across from her, Mr. Davies’s shoulders trembled slightly.

Mrs. Crawford eyed her for a moment. She didn’t look the least bit convinced. “All right, then. But don’t stand on ceremony here. If you feel overcome, you have my permission to leave. Immediately.” She then resumed her conversation with the ancient man to her left.

“Thank you, madam,” Sylvia said with all the dignity she could muster under the current circumstances.

Whatever was ailing Mr. Davies worsened. She cast a sidelong glance at him, but it appeared he was laughing. He flashed her a conspiratorial smile free of artiface, and for a very brief moment the room faded away. No more richly bejeweled ladies, gentlemen in country tweeds, or bustling maids trying to hide their exhaustion. It was just the two of them, staring at each other as if they were sharing some delightful secret, some kind of elemental recognition, of like finding like. A feeling of warmth that came very close to comfort began to sweep over her as his gaze seemed to move beyond the perfectly modest, carefully bland exterior Sylvia had created, exposing her true form.

She inhaled sharply at the thought and belatedly realized she had been on the verge of smiling back, like a fool. Like a woman who actually wanted to be noticed by the gorgeous son of an earl. The teacup she had been gripping clattered against the saucer, thoroughly breaking whatever spell had just come over her.

“I––I think I will go after all.” She had meant to address Mrs. Crawford, but her eyes were still entangled with Mr. Davies’s. His smile began to fade as she forced herself to turn away.

Mrs. Crawford distractedly waved a hand, too fixated on the man to her left, but Georgiana squeezed her wrist. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Her sympathy made Sylvia feel even more ridiculous. “No. Please. Stay here. Enjoy yourself.”

Georgiana opened her mouth, likely to argue, but then glanced toward Mr. Davies and gave a reluctant nod. “I’ll check on you before supper.”

Sylvia whispered her thanks and stood. Mr. Davies immediately rose, followed a beat later by the other gentlemen, several of whom grumbled under their breath at the momentary inconvenience. She managed a nod as she excused herself, taking care not to look directly at him. But as she carefully picked her way through the room, she felt a heavy gaze tracking her every step, burning the back of her neck until she disappeared through the doorway.

Chapter Two

Mr. Davies?”

Rafe tore his gaze from the doorway and turned to Lady Taylor-Smyth, who had apparently just asked him a question he hadn’t heard a word of.

Damn. That wasn’t like him.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, flashing her his most rakish smile. “Could you repeat that?”

Good thing Rafe had a reputation for not being particularly sharp. The woman looked amused rather than irritated. “I asked if you had ever been to Scotland before,” she crooned, not at all noticing the source of his distraction.

He shook his head. “I’ve visited nearly every part of the Continent, but I had never been north of York until today.”

“How exciting for you.” The alluring baroness’s dark eyes stared intently into his own. “I’ve been coming to this area since I was a girl. My granny was a Glaswegian. I’d be happy to show you around, if you’d like.” Then she lowered her voice. “Just the two of us.”

The suggestive note in her words made it very clear what sorts of things they could get up to alone. Only five minutes in her company and she was already propositioning him. That was certainly a first.

As she continued to describe the many charms of the Scottish Lowlands, Rafe tilted his head to at least appear like he was listening to the woman this time, but his mind was still occupied by the one who had practically fled his company.

Yet another first, but a much less welcome one.

Miss Sparrow was pretty enough to catch the eye, with a mass of light brown hair trying valiantly to escape its pins and fine, almost elfin features, yet most people wouldn’t pay her much notice while she stood next to the outrageous Mrs. Crawford or the voluptuous Lady Arlington, whom he had met before in London.

But then, Rafe wasn’t most people.

On first glance Miss Sparrow appeared to be little more than a timid lady’s companion finding her feet with an overbearing employer, but her ink-stained fingers and slightly rumpled clothing gave her away. She reminded him of those confounding New Women types he saw in London sometimes, riding bicycles, working in offices, and meeting in groups to discuss plans to win the vote. Was this Miss Sparrow one of them?

The idea was rather intriguing.

There was a hidden sharpness vibrating in her just below the surface, if one only bothered to look. Rafe strongly suspected that she possessed a bone-dry sense of humor she likely took great pains to conceal in front of her employer, except the poor girl had a pair of enormous gray eyes that betrayed even her most fleeting emotion. It was the hint of challenge in her gaze that had so thoroughly arrested him mere moments ago, before it turned sour.

Rafe had never minded acting like a useless aristocrat before, as his work on behalf of the Crown required him to play up his blue-blooded roots, but the sort of people he usually caroused with were cut from the same cloth. Seeing that brief little flit of disapproval pass over Miss Sparrow’s features had unexpectedly stung.

Lady Arlington also watched Miss Sparrow’s exit with a look of concern very different from the tranquil expression she normally wore. She glanced toward him and immediately turned away, her face now carefully blank. Rafe brought his teacup to his lips and took a long, considering sip despite the warning note echoing through his head.

He didn’t have time to be distracted by an awkward young woman suffering from a bout of nerves. He had arrived at the castle only hours ago at the behest of his host, who suspected one of his guests was behind a series of anonymous threats. But Rafe couldn’t ignore the prickling sensation at the back of his neck. The one that began when his eyes met Miss Sparrow’s from across the room. The one that he suspected she felt too, until she bolted from her chair. She may have found him distasteful, may think of him as nothing more than a callow rogue, but something else had crossed that lovely little face of hers before she left. Something like fear.

Rafe shook his head and recalled his purpose. Wardale thought this would be an excellent chance for him to meet the other guests, most of whom he already knew. It was the usual mix of aristocrats and nouveau riche. Rafe shoved all thoughts of Miss Sparrow aside and focused on performing the role of charming dilettante. But in between his jokes and bon mots, his attention was drawn more and more to Lady Arlington, who had grown steadily quieter since Miss Sparrow left.. . .