The Artist and the Rake Read online

  The Artist and the Rake

  The Merry Misfits of Bath - Book Four

  Callie Hutton

  Contents

  About the Book

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Will her ruination kill her chance for love?

  * * *

  Life hasn’t been too kind to talented artist, Lizbeth Davenport for the last few years. Her entire family was wiped out by influenza, leaving her alone in the world. Then she was unfairly fired from the job that was her sole support which led to her being kidnapped and sold to a brothel. Now that she’s free she’s ready to move on with her life, but the anger still festers that no one paid the price for kidnapping her.

  * * *

  Even though his family has been pushing him toward marriage, Marcus Mallory has no desire for the confinement of the wedded state. He enjoys the company of the ladies and likes his life the way it is. Since he is attempting to have a bill passed on sex slavery in the House of Commons he is requested to help in the rescue of Lizbeth from the brothel. Aside from the attraction he feels toward her, he also bears a sense of responsibility for her welfare.

  * * *

  When he discovers Lizbeth’s plan to bring down the people who are running the sex slavery ring, he insists on working with her, but will his growing attraction to Lizbeth ever be returned by this woman who cannot stand a man’s touch?

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  Prologue

  The County of Somerset, England

  A flock of birds soared above the small gathering, calling to each other as they dipped and swayed in a group across the gray sky. Below them, Lizbeth Davenport stood in front of the gaping hole in the ground and shuddered at the sound of dirt dropping onto her mother’s coffin. The cloudy sky and cold wind, fitting for the occasion, caused her to hug her coat tighter to her body.

  She stared at the bright yellow flower she’d dropped onto the coffin right before the first clods of dirt rained down. Within seconds the flower was covered, no longer visible, gone. Like Lizbeth’s life.

  She stepped back.

  Mama was the last person in her family to be buried. A mere three weeks before, Lizbeth’s life had been perfectly normal. She and her two brothers, Jacob and Eli lived in their snug little house in Somerset with their parents. Papa was a solicitor, providing a comfortable living for his family.

  Eli and Jacob did well in school, and Lizbeth diligently worked on her paintings, planning her first art show in the newly opened art gallery in her town. Then Papa returned home from work one Tuesday evening not feeling well, and within days he was gone. Influenza took him and both her brothers in rapid succession. Mama managed to hang on until the day before when she succumbed to the disease.

  Miraculously, some would say—Lizbeth wasn’t so sure herself—she never fell ill and nursed them all until Mama’s last breath. Now she was alone in the world with no other relatives except a few in America whom she’d never met.

  “My dear, if you are considering selling your Papa’s house, I know of a family eager to purchase it.” Lizbeth turned to the young pastor, aghast at his insensitive words merely minutes after the service had concluded.

  “I haven’t decided just yet,” she mumbled and turned to leave the graveside.

  So much for kindness and caring from a man of the cloth. Sell the house? Where would she go? In fact, with being completely alone in the world she had no idea whatsoever on how to go on with her life. What she would do, where she would go, or how to even support herself. Although Papa made a good living, Mama told her near the end that there wasn’t much in savings. Not even a respectable dowry for her.

  At twenty years, she should have been married with a family of her own, but with her interest in art, she’d only attended a smattering of the social events in town. Consequently, she’d had a few suitors over the years, but none of them appealed enough to put her art aside to take up the role of wife and mother.

  Not that she never planned to marry. Just not yet. Now she was reconsidering her decision, wondering if she’d been foolish. Had she a husband, she wouldn’t be alone and concerned with where her next meal would come from.

  Several of her friends had attended the funeral, but a few of them had family members themselves who were sick, since the illness had spread throughout the village. They offered quick hugs and then hurried away, fear in their eyes that the next funeral would be for one of their own.

  After the short carriage ride home, she slowly made the climb up the few steps to her front door. She removed her hat, coat and gloves as she entered the house, dropping them on the sofa. Wearily, she collapsed into the rocking chair in front of the parlor window, Mama’s favorite spot in the house. She rocked back and forth, her body and mind numb.

  The next morning, she sat in the same place without having slept more than an hour or two. She rose from the chair and wandered through the house dragging her fingertips over the furniture, as dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the windows. She bent to pick up one of Eli’s toy soldiers and placed it next to Papa’s now cold pipe.

  One tear slid down her cheek. All that her body could produce after days and nights of crying.

  She wiped her face and walked to Papa’s desk. She pulled out the worn and faded map of England Papa kept in one of the drawers. She spread it out and studied it. She covered her eyes with her hand, and moving her index finger in a circle, she placed her finger on the map, and opened her eyes.

  Bath.

  That was where she would go. She had no choice, the memories here were going to kill her. Let the family Pastor Nelson said eagerly wanted the house move in.

  For her it was too quiet.

  Too dark.

  It was no longer her home.

  Chapter 1

  Bath, England

  Four years later

  “I can assure you, sir, that I have no idea how that brooch got into my reticule. I certainly didn’t put it there. I have never stolen anything in my life.” Lizbeth frowned at the expensive piece of jewelry that was to be used for a special-order hat.

  In the three years she had worked at the hat factory, she’d been a hard worker and been rewarded with a raise in pay each year. She was one of the few who did. But now she was being accused of stealing a brooch!

  “Well, young lady, it’s plain as day that you intended to take this brooch home.” The guard who checked them at the exit door each evening waved the item in her face and glared at her.

  A slight bit of fear rose in Lizbeth’s middle. Surely, they understood it was a mistake. Being on her own, this job was her only means of support.

  For nearly the first year after she’d arrived in Bath, she managed to live on the funds she’d gotten from the sale of her house and Papa’s final solicitor fees. Minding her pennies, she’d been able to devote all her time to her art. However, she soon learned that with the size of the city of Bath, obtaining an art show for an unknown artist was much more difficult than it had been in her little town.

  Her rent took a good portion of her money, plus food was more expensive, and any extra pennies were
spent on art supplies. When her funds ran out, she reluctantly put her dream aside and took a job in the hat factory, always hoping one day she would not be so exhausted from working long hours and be able to return to her passion.

  Lizbeth tried again, her mouth growing dry with anxiety. “I must once more explain to you that my reticule was on a shelf with the other ladies’, so anyone could have put it in there, thinking it was their own.”

  The guard shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. It’s your bag, so you’re the thief.” He pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit there.”

  Her stomach cramped and her heartbeat sped up. If she lost this job, she would be homeless in no time. She’d been foolish to spend the extra money from each week’s wages on art supplies. A lot of good that would do her when she was painting on the street. Or, she thought with a gulp, in a jail cell.

  Lizbeth looked up as Mr. Longhorn, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose strolled down the corridor with the guard. “Miss Davenport?”

  She stood, amazed that her shaky legs held her up. “Yes.”

  “Come with me, please.” He turned and walked off, not even looking back to see if she followed. Of course she did. She had no choice.

  Once they were in the manager’s office he waved at a chair in front of his desk and took his position behind it. “It appears our guard caught a thief.” His smile was as fake as paste jewelry.

  “No.” She wiped the sweat from her upper lip. “I know the brooch was found in my reticule, but I didn’t put it there.”

  Mr. Longhorn’s brows rose. “Indeed? I suppose it walked from where it was stored to be used on a special order right into your possession?”

  Lizbeth sighed. “I already explained to Mr. Fester at the door. All of our reticules are stored on the same shelf. Anyone could have put it in there.”

  “For what purpose? Just to get you fired?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. That answered the question about whether she would keep her job. “No. I’m thinking perhaps someone was going to steal it and put it in my bag by mistake.”

  Mr. Longhorn tapped his pencil on the desk and stared at her over the top of his glasses. “Since you might have a point, I will not contact the police. However, you are fired.” He waved at the door. “You may leave now.”

  “Wait a minute!” She held up her hand, desperation in her voice. “If I had intended to steal it, why would I put it in my reticule knowing it’s searched every evening as we leave?”

  “That is not my concern, Miss Davenport. The evidence is right there.” He pointed to the cursed brooch sitting in the middle of his desk.

  Her shoulders slumped. With no job and no reference since she was being fired for stealing, it might have been better if Mr. Longhorn had turned her over to the police. At least then she would have a roof over her head and food.

  She gathered her dignity and left the room, walking down the corridor on shaky legs past the guard, Mr. Fester, who handed over her reticule and nodded in her direction like it was any other night, and not a disaster for her.

  The air was cool, and the sky gray as she left the building for the last time. Her spirits were as low as the weather. Whatever would she do? She tried her best to keep the tears from falling but was unsuccessful. She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath. She’d gone no more than a few steps when an older woman approached her.

  “My dear, you look so distraught. Is there anything I can do to help you?” She eyed her with sympathy which was the wrong thing to do since that only opened up a flood of tears.

  “I’m afraid not. I was just fired from my job.”

  The woman sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, no. How terrible for you. That is an awful thing to happen. I am so sorry, my dear.” She paused for a minute. “I don’t mean to be forward, but may I offer you some tea? My name is Mrs. O’Leary. I own a boarding house for young women only a few streets from here.”

  Since her brain refused to work, only allowing the word fired to repeat over and over again in her head with a sickening cadence, Lizbeth nodded numbly and allowed the woman to lead her along.

  “What is your name, dear?”

  Lizbeth looked into Mrs. O’Leary’s sympathetic eyes. “Miss Lizbeth Davenport.”

  Mrs. O’Leary nodded and kept up a constant chatter as they wound their way through the streets to a less busy one with a number of structures that appeared to be boarding houses.

  “Here we are, dear.” She climbed the steps and the door was opened by the man in dark pants, a waistcoat, jacket, and ascot who bowed at the two of them. “Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Leary.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Andrews. This is Miss Davenport who has come for tea.”

  Mr. Andrews bowed, and Mrs. O’Leary led her to the back of the house to a large, well-equipped kitchen. “Just sit there, dear, and I’ll make the tea. I have food left from dinner that I will be happy to offer you.”

  Lizbeth shook her head. If she attempted to put anything in her stomach with the way it was roiling, it wouldn’t last long. “No. Thank you, but the tea will be fine for now.”

  Once the teapot was on the table and they sat across from each other, Mrs. O’Leary patted Lizbeth’s hand. “Tell me what happened.”

  Lizbeth took a sip of tea and placed the cup in the saucer. “We oftentimes have jewelry or other trinkets that women want to be used in the making of a special-order hat. Today when I was leaving, I handed over my reticule to the man at the door like we do every night for inspection.”

  She took another sip and continued. “He found an expensive brooch in my reticule that was to be used for a special order.” Before the kind woman could think badly of her, Lizbeth hurried on. “I didn’t take it. I assure you, Mrs. O’Leary, I have never stolen anything in my life.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, dear. I am a good judge of character and you seem to be trustworthy. Otherwise I wouldn’t have invited you to my home.”

  “Thank you.” The kind words brought tears to Lizbeth’s eyes. “I tried to explain that anyone could have taken that brooch and put it into my reticule. I even mentioned to the manager that I would never put it into my reticule when I knew it would be searched. But he dismissed that as not important. The entire thing is confusing.”

  “Do you have family to take care of you?”

  Lizbeth shook her head. “No. My parents and two brothers died of influenza four years ago. I’m afraid I’m all alone in the world.” More tears.

  Mrs. O’Leary studied her for a minute. “Oh, you poor dear. All alone in the world. No husband, either? Or betrothed?”

  Lizbeth shook her head. “No. I’m an artist, and when I arrived in Bath, I had intended to pursue my art and possibly have an art show. But that never happened before my money ran out and I took the job at the hat factory.” It felt good to talk to the woman. Being a bit on the shy side, Lizbeth did not make friends easily and the women she worked with were mostly married or supporting fatherless children and had no time for friendship.

  Mrs. O’Leary continued to study her. “I have an open room here right now. I would be happy to allow you to use it, free of charge, until you find another position.”

  Lizbeth’s eyes widened as she wiped her wet cheeks. “Why would you do that?”

  The woman sniffed. “I was once all alone in the world myself. I know how frightening it can be for a young girl. If you are willing to do a few things around the house, changing bed linens, helping with dinner, and such, I think it would work out.”

  As much as Lizbeth wanted to jump at the chance, her innate honesty reared its head. “I appreciate your offer, Mrs. O’Leary, but since I was fired for stealing, it might be some time before I find another job.”

  Again, the woman patted her hand. “That doesn’t concern me. I have enough boarders that I can give up one room for a good cause.”

  Lizbeth leaned back and blew out a breath. “That is wonderful. I can’t believe we accidentally met right outside the factory.” She smi
led for the first time in a couple of hours. “I would be happy to take you up on your offer.”

  “Excellent. I have a carriage I keep in the mews behind the house. When you are finished with your tea, we will go to your flat and gather your things.”

  “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  Mrs. O’Leary merely smiled at her.

  * * *

  London, England

  Mr. Marcus Mallory, member of the House of Commons and nephew of the Earl of Denbigh, slammed the handful of papers in his hand on his desk in frustration. He’d spent the entire morning trying to get votes in the House of Commons for his bill protecting women and children. It amazed him how something that should be so easy to garner support for continued to flounder. A similar bill had passed the House of Lords twice, but always died in the House of Commons.

  Disgusted with the members of Parliament, he strode from the building and made his way to White’s, his favorite gentlemen’s club. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a few friends not involved in Parliament to discuss other matters before he had to dress for the Atkinsons’ ball later.

  He took a seat and waved the footman over to bring him a bottle of brandy. As much as he hated attending social events where the mamas of young daughters searched the room like hungry vultures, he had promised his mother he would attend at least two affairs a week.