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  A Rake for Juliana Copyright © 2021 by Jessica A. Clements

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  The Publisher would like to thank all contributors to this work.

  First edition

  Book design by KH Koehler Design

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Prologue

  2. Chapter One

  3. Chapter Two

  4. Chapter Three

  5. Chapter Four

  6. Chapter Five

  7. Chapter Six

  8. Chapter Seven

  9. Chapter Eight

  10. Chapter Nine

  11. Chapter Ten

  12. Chapter Eleven

  13. Chapter Twelve

  14. Chapter Thirteen

  15. Chapter Fourteen

  16. Chapter Fifteen

  17. Chapter Sixteen

  18. Chapter Seventeen

  19. Chapter Eighteen

  20. Chapter Nineteen

  21. Chapter Twenty

  22. Chapter Twenty-one

  23. Chapter Twenty-two

  24. Chapter Twenty-three

  25. Chapter Twenty-four

  26. Chapter Twenty-five

  27. Chapter Twenty-Six

  28. Chapter Twenty-seven

  29. Chapter Twenty-eight

  30. Epilogue

  Read an excerpt of A Spy for Minerva

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Jennifer Oneal Gunn, Kara Kenworthy, and Elizabeth Schulz. I also want to thank my amazing beta readers: Karen Simpson and Peggy Kennedy. As well as my editor and proofreader: KH Koehler and Kim Huther. Without you, this book would be on the “to be finished” pile along with my other projects. Thank you!

  Minerva had been enjoying her family’s company as their coach ambled down the road, giggling at something her father had said. In the next moment, a loud crack sounded. The sound of screaming, screaming, and more screaming filled her ears as the carriage finally came to rest at the bottom of the hill. Then there was a deadly silence, and there was nothing except for the red haze slowly taking over.

  Juliana woke with a scream. Something wasn’t right. She couldn’t feel her twin sister’s presence. She heard the “click-clack” of shoes on the hardwood floor racing toward her rooms. She tried to calm her breathing, which was futile, but she was able to force out an “Enter” as her lady’s maid knocked on the door.

  “Oh, milady, did you have another bad dream?” Maddy asked, trying to catch her breath.

  “Yes, Maddy, I did. This one was so real. I think Minerva is in trouble. Would you have John Footman ready the older carriage for me?” Juliana pushed herself off the bed and paced in front of the fireplace.

  “Of course, milady,” Maddy curtsied and quickly left the room.

  Juliana knew time was of the essence. She needed to find Minerva before anyone else did. She scanned her room. To her surprise, her gown from earlier in the day was still draped over the chair she’d used to read in. She rushed to put the gown on, the only gown that she had that she could put on without Maddy to help her and ran down the stairs to wait for the carriage to be brought around.

  * * *

  Marcus Stafford, the honorable eighth Duke of Dunsbury, was on his custom pilgrimage to the capitol. No matter how luxurious his transportation, the discomfort the three-day trip caused him was akin to several days’ worth of army drills. Or, was that weeks?

  The duke had curly hair the shade of rich mahogany and eyes a vivid, clear blue and was known as the season’s catch, though some would classify him as too young to marry. This didn’t stop his mother from pestering him to search for a life mate.

  Marcus was a skeptic when it came to love, and even more so when it came to true love. He inherited the dukedom at the young age of five. His parents had been a love match and, according to some, disgustingly so. It was cut short by the untimely death of the seventh Duke of Dunsbury, who’d perished in a riding accident. A rumor had persisted that the duke had been murdered; however, it was neither confirmed nor denied. No true investigation was ever carried out. Nor would it ever happen, had said the magistrate.

  He settled his thoughts on thwarting his mother’s plans. At two and twenty, he disdained the thought of marriage.

  “Your Grace, there’s a block in the road ahead of us. From what I can see, there isn’t a way around it, sir.”

  “Smith, what exactly is blocking the road? And, why can we not get around it?” Marcus calmly probed.

  “I will ride ahead and see,” Smith replied.

  Long moments later, Smith returned short of breath. “An overturned carriage, Your Grace. The driver and footman appear to be dead, sir. There seems to be a young lady inside, as well, and she isn’t responding.”

  “We need to get the girl out and quickly. Have you sent our tiger out to get a doctor?” Marcus climbed out of his carriage and strode with purpose toward the overturned hulk.

  “Your Grace, the first thing I did was send the tiger to the nearest village. He had to walk, so it may take some time for him to get back. Until he does, I can use my training to, at least, keep her alive.”

  Smith was Marcus’s batman during the war. Smith’s medical expertise kept Marcus alive more than once during his one-year stint under General Wellington. His scars were still visible—ugly and red from being shot by some damn Frenchy in Spain.

  Marcus looked through the broken window to see a young girl staring at him. Her emerald eyes shone with unshed tears and pain. Her face was stark white. The urgency to get her out consumed his thoughts.

  London, 1815

  Lady Juliana Hatfield was lost in thought as her lady’s maid set about getting her clothes ready for the Birmingham ball. The sea-green, empire waist gown must have cost my uncle a small fortune, she thought to herself. Her uncle, the Earl of Dumbrey, had been her guardian since she was four and ten when both parents were killed in a carriage accident. The earl was rumored to be as rich as the crowned prince—or seemed to be so.

  Since Uncle Basil didn’t have a wife, he employed a distant relative to chaperone her during The Season. Cousin Henrietta Blackstone was a spinster who was a decade older than Juliana. Her nondescript looks—stringy black hair pulled back in a ridged fashion, and eyes nearly the color of her hair—made her an intimidating force of nature.

  “Maddy, can you call for a bath? I find that I must placate my uncle and cousin. They get into such rows that books and other assorted items get thrown,” Juliana said to the maid.

  “My lady, I’ve witnessed that firsthand. Why Lord Dumbrey keeps her in this house is beyond me. Excuse me for saying so, my lady,” Maddy whispered, trying to be discreet.

  “It isn’t anything I haven’t thought myself, Maddy,” Juliana said plainly.

  Maddy, a year younger than she, was more a friend than a lady’s maid. Juliana didn’t know Maddy’s past, and neither did she ask her friend to tell her.

  Juliana made her way down the main staircase to the sound of loud arguing coming from her uncle’s study. A large tome containing her uncle’s prized Chaucer was thrown seconds before she opened the massive door.

  “You told me that I only—” Henr
ietta said, nearly shouting.

  “Henrietta, we have company!” her uncle exclaimed as Juliana found herself in between the two.

  “What are you two fighting about now? Wait just a moment. I am sure I already know. I have a ball in a couple of hours, and I need a chaperone. If you don’t mind, I have to prepare.”

  Juliana exited the room with a smile on her face. She knew she had just effectively stunned her chaperone. She loved causing mischief.

  After all, her uncle knew she was being facetious. It was the smile in her eye and the slight wink she gave him as she strode through the open door and into the hallway that gave her away.

  * * *

  Marcus sat at a corner table at his club with his two friends—Jacob Spencer, the Earl of Blackridge, and Aaron Murray, the Marquis of Elderstone. The three men were part of the Rakes, a group of men who had been hand-chosen since birth to be part of an ancient spy group known as the Rakes and the Crown. It was a wide network of agents, and a responsibility that was passed down from father to son. In some cases, from father to daughter.

  They all had biblical assignations. Marcus, being the dark and menacing sort, was the Devil. Jacob was the opposite in almost all regards except for one thing—his appeal with the ladies. Where Marcus was dark, Jacob was light and brooding. Jacob’s light blond curls were highlighted by his sea-green eyes. He was tall, slim, and had an Adonis-like physique. He was given the moniker Angel.

  Aaron wasn’t necessarily handsome in the classical sense, but his fortune and title made up for it. He wore his red hair short. His chocolate brown eyes held a sense of intelligence that the other two men lacked. Aaron was given the moniker Lucifer. He, like Marcus, spent time on the continent in the army. Ever since then, the blasted freckles wouldn’t go away. Which, in and of itself, was a social faux pas. This didn’t seem to bother the ladies at all, since he was the biggest Rake of them all.

  “Marc, I hear your mother is hounding you to get yourself a wife. You poor sod!” Aaron said, chuckling to himself.

  “Aaron, you’ll be next, my friend. You know your mother has been pestering you just as much. You have to have an heir and all,” Jacob added.

  “Jacob, you are the only one whose mother doesn’t have you chasing a bride.” Marcus laughed.

  “My father made that choice for me years ago.” Jacob looked sullen.

  Marcus and Aaron glanced at each other in complete shock. They didn’t know this about their friend. They had been friends since birth. Aaron’s estate bordered Marcus’s to the north and Jacob’s to the east.

  “So, who is the lucky lady?” Aaron asked Jacob.

  “Lady Charlotte MacKenzie. Apparently, the engagement was in lieu of a gambling debt.” Jacob sighed.

  Marcus glanced down at his watch. He wasn’t looking forward to going to the Birmingham ball. Every single matchmaking mama would try to push her debutante daughters in front of him. He cringed internally.

  “Aaron, are you going to the Birmingham ball tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I’m hoping to find a way out of it. All those matchmaking mamas…” Aaron squirmed in his seat.

  “How about we go together? We are stronger in numbers!” Marcus exclaimed.

  “Meet up at your townhouse?” Aaron asked.

  “Of course!”

  Marcus lifted his glass, saluted his friends, and went home to prepare himself for the night to come.

  Juliana was the belle of the ball. Every eligible gentleman had asked her for a dance. But, she’d had enough of the clumsy gentlemen stomping on her toes, the horrible aroma emanating from their skin—and, well, just about everything about this Godforsaken ball. She hadn’t rested all evening, and she was trying to keep her head. She glanced down at her dance card. Lord Randall Jeffries had spoken for every supper set. If she was honest with herself, she was no longer in the mood to dance. She knew the gentleman wanted the honor of taking her to supper. She sighed as she searched the room for an unused chair on the fringes of the room.

  The servants rang the supper bell. She noticed Lord Jeffries sauntering toward her. She cringed. Then, at the last moment, the gentleman turned and strode in another direction. Juliana couldn’t complain. She strode toward the balcony, knowing that it was bad Ton to be out of doors during a ball without a chaperone.

  “I see I am not the only person who finds the ballroom overly stuffy,” said a baritone voice directly behind her.

  “It was rather hot, my Lord. I needed a breath of fresh air before returning to the ball,” she replied.

  “Since we’re here, basking in the fresh air together, allow me to introduce myself. I am Marcus Stafford, the Eighth Duke of Dunsbury.”

  Juliana gasped and scanned the room to make sure that her chaperone wasn’t looking. She had read about his reputation in the London Daily, a gossip sheet that she subscribed to. Why would he introduce himself to her? There was only one thing a rake of his reputation would want with her outside during a ball, and she was in no frame of mind to allow it, whatever that was.

  “I am Lady Juliana Hatfield,” she said as she held her hand out. He held her hand, felt a current move between them, kissed her upturned knuckles, and then stepped away.

  There was something about the duke. He looked familiar. But, from where? Had they met before?

  * * *

  Marcus smiled down at his quarry, struck by a sense of familiarity. Her name was unknown to him, yet it seemed they had met, but when? Surely, he would have remembered her bronze hair, her eyes.

  “Your Grace, it is unseemly for us to be together alone without a chaperone,” she said to break the silence.

  Marcus nodded. “I will see you to your chaperone. Do you have any dances left?”

  “I do. The final waltz, I believe.”

  “Please write my name down for that dance.”

  She nodded gracefully.

  Marcus held his arm out to her. He felt her gloved hand touch his arm as they strode back into the room.

  “Now, which of these ladies is your chaperone?” he asked. His mouth quirked up into a pleasant smile.

  He watched as she nodded toward a rather nondescript woman standing near the other chaperones and wallflowers.

  He guided Lady Juliana toward her companion.

  “Until then, my lady.” He bowed before her, leaving her standing beside Henrietta.

  * * *

  Marcus made his way back to where Aaron stood near a Grecian pillar. He found his friend exactly where he’d left him, talking to Lady Elizabeth Hensley. The tall, lithe beauty had silver hair and icy blue eyes, making her look ethereal. Her height made it difficult for her to find a dance partner—at least, one that was a match for her stature.

  Lady Elizabeth turned to face him. “Marcus, it’s been months since I’ve seen you! Did my reprobate of a cousin forget to tell you I was in town?”

  Lady Elizabeth was a distant cousin of Jacob’s. She was also Marcus’s former mistress—knowledge he kept to himself for obvious reasons. Elizabeth had grown up with the three rowdy boys and, as a result, she had always been like any other playmate—at least until she married Lord Evan Hensley, who’d tragically died on the continent shortly after their wedding.

  “Jacob did, in fact, forget to tell me. Nevertheless, it is nice to see you, my dear,” he said as he bent down to kiss her cheek.

  “Marcus, you know you should not be doing that in public, you rogue!”

  “My apologies, my lady,” Marcus chuckled and winked at her. Elizabeth gently swatted his arm with her fan in retaliation.

  “Who was that beautiful creature you were talking to out on the balcony?”

  “Lady Juliana Hatfield. She has granted me the final dance of the night.” He smiled as he searched for Juliana among the dancers on the ballroom floor. His gaze alighted on her, and then he slowly forced himself to focus on Elizabeth.

  “Marcus, you do realize that she isn’t mistress material, don’t you? She is marriage material,” she e
mphasized. “Please be careful or you may find yourself stuck with her for the rest of your life.”

  “I can imagine more horrible fates than that, believe me. To be perfectly honest, I would not mind it one bit,” he whispered with a smile.

  “Marcus! Your mother got to you, didn’t she?” Elizabeth asked while trying to hold back a laugh.

  With an audible sigh, Marcus nodded. He knew his duty. It was to marry and produce an heir. He was the duke, after all. That was his purpose—or part of his purpose. He had his work. He had his estates and the tenants to think of, as well. Marriage and heirs had to be a priority, at some point. Seeking out Juliana once more, he felt strangely at peace with his lot.

  “I see that the final dance has been signaled. I shall leave you with Aaron. He’s on the marriage mart, too,” he said with a wink, as he walked toward Juliana.

  * * *

  “I believe this is my dance, my lady,” Marcus said from behind her. He was standing far too close for her comfort. He had a strange effect on her—his voice, alone, sent shivers down her spine.

  “So, it is, Your Grace,” she said. She curtsied as he bowed. The next thing she knew, his arms went around her, and he spun her into the dips and swirls of the waltz. Heat radiated from his strong, masculine hands. It unnerved her. She supposed that it could just be the unbearable heat of the ballroom, but something told her it wasn’t.

  “Is something wrong, my lady?” His gaze met hers.

  “No, Your Grace. I was just thinking.”

  “That’s a very dangerous thing to do, my dear.”

  “What is that supposed to mean, Your Grace?” Juliana shot back at him, baiting him into a conversation.

  “My name is Marcus, and I give you leave to address me thus. All this ‘Your Grace’ business swells my head. I would especially like you to use my given name when we’re alone.”