The Bluestocking and the Rake (Hearts in Hiding Book 2) Read online

  The Bluestocking and the Rake

  Beverley Oakley

  Copyright © 2020 by Beverley Oakley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my wonderful critique partners, Nina and Bernie. Thank you for all your help and inspiration!

  Contents

  The Bluestocking and the Rake

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Series by Beverley Oakley

  Steamy, passionate next-in-series

  About the Author

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  The Bluestocking and the Rake

  Chapter 1

  Christmas time. Jemima loved it! Especially on a day like this with the sky so blue and the air so crisp.

  A thick layer of snow underfoot muted her footsteps as Jemima carried an armful of mistletoe through the forest to the small cottage she shared with her father.

  He’d be thrilled by the lovely abundance they’d use to decorate the cosy living room for this joyful time of the year.

  He’d be even more thrilled when Jemima would tell him she’d decided against taking up Cousin Susan’s proposal to accompany her daughter Lucy to London for Lucy’s Come-Out the following April. Showy events and society balls were not to Jemima’s taste and although the Professor had endorsed Cousin Susan’s husband-hunting efforts on Jemima’s behalf, Jemima knew he’d be secretly pleased to have his daughter by his side. Always, as Jemima intended would be the case from now on.

  “Ben!” she called, as she ran up the steps to the house, expecting the footman to emerge, ready to help her.

  To her surprise, the door remained closed and the house seemed strangely silent. “Mrs. Dawkins!” None of the servants responded to her call, so, a little surprised, she let herself in.

  The hallway was quite dark. Usually, the candles were lit by now, though she could see the glow of the Argand lamp from beneath the door of her papa’s library.

  “Papa, look what I brought!”

  She thrust open the library door, but remained on the threshold for the moment it took for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Across the Aubusson rug, she could see through the window the brightness of the snow. Usually, Mary their housemaid would have drawn closed the curtains and have made up the fire by now.

  Jemima went to the hearth and dropped the mistletoe upon the polished marble as she looked about her.

  Something wasn’t right. She glanced at the walls. Her father’s favourite pictures stared down at her: Hannibal Crossing the Alps on an Elephant, Capella’s Sermon of John the Baptist before Herod. A dozen glass eyes glowed from various positions about the room. They belonged to the many small, stuffed animals her father had studied in his earlier days, before he’d become wholly obsessed with discovering the transcription of his most important find. It was a project which had come to consume Jemima, too.

  Nothing seemed out of place, and yet she sensed danger. An unaccountable prickling sensation at the back of her neck warned her to retreat, but instead she took a step farther into the room, calling again, more tentatively, “Papa?”

  The faintest of groans drew her attention to the shadows near his desk and with a cry, Jemima threw herself onto her knees beside the professor’s prone form lying on the carpet. She put her hand to his forehead. “What’s happened!”

  The old man moved awkwardly but was unable to raise himself. Thinking he must have had a seizure, Jemima snatched up his cold hand to chafe warmth into it, and felt the stickiness of blood.

  “Papa, I’ll get help,” she cried, half rising and thinking he must have cut himself on the desk as he fell.

  But he wouldn’t release her hand, and his eyes looked haunted as he mouthed words she couldn’t understand but which she tried to forestall. “Hush, Papa, you need your strength. I shall fetch someone. Where are the servants?”

  “No, Jemima…” His grip was weak, his voice even weaker as he pushed out the words. “Danger. The clay tablet… You know where it is. Give it to them… Save yourself.”

  She tried to draw in a breath while her heart hammered. The clay tablet? Her father was telling her to give some stranger the small clay tablet covered in hieroglyphics that she was in the process of interpreting? “What are you saying, Father? It’s your life’s work. Our life’s work!” And only one visit to the British Museum was needed to fully interpret the instructions that had stymied explorers for centuries. Fear and confusion made it difficult to swallow. She glanced up, relieved to see the object hidden beneath a mountain of papers on her father’s cluttered table as she leant over her father, her ears attuned for the sound of the servants. Where were they? She called out for Ben, then put her face close to her father’s ear. “Papa, you will be all right. Help is coming.”

  “No, Jemima…you must run! Leave me. Leave…the tablet.”

  Leave the tablet? She could never do that. Leave her father when he needed help? Her confusion ratcheted up a level. Reaching up to retrieve the innocuous looking disc of clay from the desk, while still on her knees, Jemima stared at it lovingly a moment before carefully dropping it into her apron pocket. The tablet had forged a special bond between her father and herself. Last night, she’d begged him to let her travel to Constantinople to be part of the expedition to find the chests of gold whose location would finally be revealed once Jemima finished interpreting the tablet’s precise instructions. Of course, her father would not claim the treasure for himself. His reward would be the satisfaction of discovering what had eluded scholars for centuries. As long as Professor Percy had enough to live on and could carry on with the work that so absorbed him, he was happy.

  Disappointingly, though in his usual gentle manner, he’d said this was men’s work; that there was only one man to whom he’d trust the tablet—a scholar whose collection of antiquities was the finest in all England, but who’d been away for three years exploring the Holy Land. He’d told Jemima that when she’d transcribed every letter and word, they would invite this man to their cottage by the Norfolk coast and propose a joint venture to lay claim, in the name of the kingdom, to the hidden treasure, once thought to be mythical.

  “I will never give the tablet away! Father, I must get help!”

  His grip was stronger than before. It gave her hope until she realized it was powered by his need to make her listen. “Someone’s hiding. Run, Jemima!”

  She realized she’d been foolish not to heed him the first time. Not to heed her instincts. Yes, something, someone, was in the room. Her fear took on a different dimension as she dropped his hand and rose to her feet. Her father would not speak lightly of such a thing.

  Her senses seemed keener now. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? The smell of sweat; of an unwashed body in the shadows. Flooded with sudden dread, Jemima reached down for the fir bough, snow scattering upon the carpet as she brandished it like a club.

  Last night, they’d invited in a group of wassai
lers who had sung and performed in front of the fire. It had been a long time since Jemima could remember feeling so happy.

  Now, in the shadows by the fire screen, as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she found herself staring into the eyes of one of them. A man who had sung and danced and enjoyed their mulled wine and flummery with smiles as broad as his fellow entertainers. Yes, she recognised his ebony-colored hair and his pasty skin. This time, instead of smiling, his mouth was a hard line; his eyes full of menace as they met Jemima’s terrified stare.

  Self-preservation drove Jemima to run like a lady never did. Gripping the small, oblong piece of engraved clay through the pocket of her apron, she made for the door. The stranger pounced at the same time. The smell of stale sweat that stained his coarse, dirty homespun was almost overpowering while her last glimpse over her shoulder was of the bulging veins in his forehead, the curl of his lip, And finally, the flecks of spittle about his dark beard when he cursed as she spun out of reach of his outthrust arm, her soft slippers sliding on the wooden flooring as she gained speed and left the carpet.

  Where to run to?

  Screaming for the servants, Jemima tore through the house. Her agility was in her favor, but she wasn’t used to such exertion. The door gave way with too much reluctance for he caught up with her on the front steps, hurling himself upon her like an animal so that she crashed down beneath his weight, cracking her head upon the stone.

  “Get away! What do you want from me?” she shrieked, struggling, knowing her life depended upon it at the same time as a tiny piece of her now pounding brain acknowledged she was vanquished. That unless she could deliver into safe hands the small piece of clay she clutched so desperately within her apron pocket, her father’s greatest achievement would go to villains.

  Jemima wasn’t a feisty, physical girl. Reading to her father, gentle walks and dreamy contemplation of the ancient worlds to which her father belonged more than to this one, were generally the order of the day.

  Now the fight to live and to honor the injured man she’d left bleeding in the study sent power and energy surging through her limbs. She managed to hook her assailant in the eye with her fingernail, but his answering rage put an end to the small injuries she could inflict. With a howl of pain, he clamped his hand over her mouth, then smacked her across the side of her head before throwing her roughly over his shoulder and striding down the last two steps and across the snow-covered gravel drive.

  “I’m to take ya and that piece of clay rubbish so ya’d better come along wi’ me,” he snarled as he stumbled along the path by the cliff edge. He knew she was vanquished, that he had no need to rush, for now his movements were almost mockingly languid.

  When she’d regained her breath, Jemima tried to struggle and scream, though her voice sounded puling when she opened her lungs. She could feel the swelling beginning on her cheek, and her vision was impaired by what she quickly realized was blood, not dirt. The dark viscous liquid coating the back of the hand she wiped across her sweating brow frightened her, though not as much as the remembered pool of blood beside her father.

  Oh God, it was all over. This man had tried to kill her father, and now he was going to carry her away to a place of horror and torture. Vaguely, she realized someone must have planned the whole operation. Someone who had known of the secret project which had obsessed her father and upon which Jemima had been working for more than five years.

  Her entire existence had been cocooned in safety, but now the brutal world had blown in, and not a servant had shown his face to aid her. Had they been dealt with in the same way as her father? Normally, there would be some of the household or outside servants around, even on a freezing winter’s afternoon like this.

  “Please don’t kill me!” Jemima whimpered when the brute unceremoniously dropped her so that she slithered to the frozen ground. They’d covered some distance, though all Jemima had been able to see was the unrelenting snow underfoot, while her face was buffeted by the strong wind blowing off the coast as he’d headed towards the cliffs.

  “Then stop ya infernal screechin’ or ‘twill be a pleasure. I reckon that piece o’ mud or stone ya got ‘idden away on ya person is all ’is lordship is after. ‘E can do without ya.” The roar of the surf upon the deadly rocks below the nearby cliff edge pounded into her brain, and faint spray borne by the wind beaded her face. “And I can do wivout you! Give it ta me!” he ordered, holding out his hand, not to help Jemima up from the heap at his feet in which she’d landed, but clearly demanding the small disc she’d moved from her apron pocket where she feared it may fall out, to behind the busk of her stays.

  Only a hesitation was required to know that he’d have no compunction in tossing her off the cliff—after taking the stone by force first. Reluctantly, she dug inside her bodice, turning her face away from the man’s lascivious sneer. In her rarefied world, the few gentlemen she’d come across behaved with gravity and quiet deference. Most of her father’s associates were elderly, and Jemima, devoted as she was to her father and as passionate as he about his discoveries, had never yearned to leave his side; his world.

  Even now she had dignity enough to be glad that the tears that stung her eyes could be mistaken for the salty spray. She’d not be reduced to a quivering crybaby with no dignity by this man while she had breath in her body.

  She drew out the disc, but didn’t relinquish it. Instead, she raised her arm ready to throw it, watching the way the man’s nostrils twitched, the coarse hairs dancing a jig as his mouth trembled.

  Then, over his shoulder, she spied a rider galloping toward them at tremendous speed. Her surprise registered at the same moment as her assailant’s, her ears attuned to the cry of, “Get ready to leap!”

  She’d never leaped for anyone or anything before. Even the occasional country dances were sedate affairs. But now she was ready to leap anywhere for anyone as long as it wasn’t the accursed creature before her who meant her such grave harm.

  With surprising agility and presence of mind, she sidestepped the thrusting arm of her assailant, ready to grasp whatever would whisk her to freedom, and in a whoosh of lightning speed, found herself caught up beneath a strong, masculine arm as she took a running step to help launch herself into the air. Taking the next step, there was nothing beneath her feet, and while for a moment the grip beneath her armpits was tight and painful, it was quickly replaced by a sensation of flying before she landed sidesaddle, then, with her rescuer’s help—fully astride—an enormous stallion; the wind thrashing her face, tearing through her hair, uncoiling it from the neat twist in which she always secured it so that now it streamed behind her.

  They tore at breakneck speed across the snow-covered ground, the stallion sailing easily over the low hedges after they left the coastline, making a jagged detour toward the road. Jemima was too concerned with staying on the beast and to keep breathing to think of anything else.

  Until finally they slowed and she was able to draw herself up, sucking in her first proper breath, conscious of the warmth of the body against which her own rested. A man whom she’d not properly seen, and whose motives she could only guess at. He’d saved her, but did that make him any better-intentioned than the first rogue who’d tried to kidnap her? The man who’d tried to kill her father?

  When they’d reduced their speed and were travelling at a gentle canter, she swung around in her seat, and the terror in her eyes must have been apparent, for almost instantly the severe, ascetic cast of the gentleman’s face relaxed into a reassuring smile.

  They’d intersected the road leading south, and he leaned in so she could hear him. “We’re nearly at the Dog and Whistle. It’s a tavern, if you don’t know it. I don’t, for I’m unfamiliar with these parts, but you should be safe there for the moment.”

  She wasn’t able to respond, for the next moment, he was pushing down her head and urging his stallion to pick up pace as they passed a phaeton coming in the opposite direction. Jemima understood he didn’t want her
recognized. She didn’t want to be recognized, either, when she had no idea who was friend or foe. An hour ago, her life had been ordered and safe. Now she’d been plunged into a maelstrom of fear and uncertainty.

  As she was ushered into a private parlor at the inn, she prepared to confront this stranger and learn what he wanted of her. Was he also after the clay disc? If not, why had he suddenly appeared? Perhaps rescue had only been a pretense.

  Warily, she lowered herself into a chair before the fire and eyed him with what he must have seen as clear distrust, for he was quick to reassure her. He certainly didn’t look like a villain. His clothes were sober, well cut and obviously from a good tailor. She noticed that his nails were neatly trimmed and his face freshly shaved. Most of all, she was conscious of a sense of safety in his presence. He had a calmness of manner, despite his earlier heroics, that invited confidence.

  “I presume you are Professor Percy’s daughter,” he said as he lowered himself into the seat opposite. The room was cramped and smelled of stale porter, and he looked out of place in his finely-cut coat, with his serious demeanor, and aristocratic features. Jemima judged him to be in his late thirties, perhaps older.

  “Let me introduce myself.” He hesitated, then smiled. “Perhaps Sir Richard should suffice for now. You see, I was intending to see your father, as he’d recently informed me he was on the cusp of a great discovery for we share a mutual interest in antiquities.” A shadow crossed his face. “I’d not intended to come so soon. Last night, while drinking with a friend not long after I’d come off the boat after my travels in Mesopotamia, I was informed that he’d received intelligence someone else coveted your father’s find. And that this unidentified person would go to great lengths to lay claim to it.”