Glory And The Rake

Glory And The Rake
Deborah Simmons

Praise for Deborah Simmons

‘Simmons guarantees the reader a page-turner …’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Deborah Simmons is a wonderful storyteller and brings historical romance to life.’

—A Romance Review

‘Deborah Simmons is an author I read automatically. Why? Because she gets it right. I can always count on her for a good tale, a wonderful hero, a feisty heroine, and a love story where it truly is love that makes the difference.’

—All About Romance

‘But Miss Sutton claims her waters were never associated with miraculous cures,’ Westfield said, turning towards Glory as if for confirmation.

‘And I spoke the truth, as far as I can tell,’ Glory said, hesitant to contradict the Duchess.

‘All mineral waters are known for their healing,’ the Duchess said with a wave of dismissal. ‘But those from Queen’s Well are unique in their benefits.’

‘And what might they be?’ Westfield asked.

The Duchess smiled slyly. ‘The waters here have a certain propensity for bringing about unions.’

Glory blinked in surprise, while Westfield looked dubious.

‘Unions?’ he asked.

‘Romance, dear, romance.’

AUTHOR NOTE

I hope you like my latest Regency, set at a faded spa resort with a rich history—and a mystery. As my readers know by now, I’m fascinated by old legends, hidden treasures, and secrets of the past, and I love creating my own.

Although Queen’s Well is my invention, spas were once the prime destination for members of fashionable society eager to ‘cure’ various ailments. They enjoyed the polite company and entertainments provided, along with drinking and bathing in the mineral springs. And, since such waters were thought to have healing powers, other rumours might have swirled around them, long forgotten, just waiting to be revived …

About the Author

A former journalist, DEBORAH SIMMONS turned to fiction after a love of historical romances spurred her to write her own, HEART’S MASQUERADE, which was published in 1989. She has since written more than twenty-five novels and novellas, among them a USA TODAY bestselling anthology and two finalists in the Romance Writers of America’s annual RITA

Award competition. Her books have been published in 26 countries, including illustrated editions in Japan, and she’s grateful for the support of her readers throughout the world.

A previous novel from this author:

THE DARK VISCOUNT

Glory and

the Rake

Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For Ruth and all of the book club members:

Darlene, Ellie, Frances, Grace, Kim,

Melissa and Pat. Thanks for your support

and for many memorable afternoons.

Chapter One

Glory Sutton slipped into the Pump Room, blinking in the dimness. She should have brought a lantern, for the curtains that were drawn to foil gawpers also kept out the light of the fading day. But she hadn’t realised how late it was when she’d remembered that she had left her reticule here.

The workmen had gone, but the smell of fresh paint lingered, making it easy to envision the final touches that would enable the spa to re-open. Queen’s Well had been in her family for centuries, and Glory took pride in her efforts to preserve that heritage.

But a low noise made her glance warily about. It was just the creaking of the old wood, Glory told herself, yet she renewed her hunt for her reticule. Although she had never been the type to start at sounds, since arriving in the village a month ago, she’d been aware of the mixed feelings of the residents.

That alone wouldn’t unnerve her; what did was the sensation she often had that someone was watching her. She didn’t mention it, for her brother Thad would say her feelings were proof of the enmity of the locals. And Aunt Phillida would only worry—or faint dead away. Neither of them shared Glory’s hopes for the spa and would seize upon any excuse to abandon the once-thriving well she was trying to revive.

Although Glory kept her concerns to herself, she had slipped a small pistol into her reticule. The precaution would have horrified her aunt and her brother, but Glory’s father had instilled in her the good sense to watch out for herself—even in such a seemingly benign locale as the village of Philtwell.

However, a pistol would do no good, if she did not have it at hand, Glory realised as she turned to scan the deserted room. The shrouded furniture made the place look ghostly, as well as shielding her view, and she had to swallow a cry of surprise as a stray draught caught at a sheet. Finally, she spied a dark object lying on one of the benches that lined the walls. Had she put it down when inspecting the refurbished pieces? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps one of the workmen had moved it there.

Hurrying into the shadows, Glory reached for the item, relieved to feel the soft material of her bag and the heft of the weapon inside it. But then she heard a noise again and spun round in alarm, for it sounded like the creak of a door.

Had someone followed her inside? Glory was tempted to call out the question, but held her tongue. Who would be entering a darkened building that had been closed for decades? It might just be a curious villager or one of the workers returning, but something made Glory shrink into the shadows.

A glance towards the main entrance showed that it remained firmly shut. However, she had come through the rear of the building, using her key. Had she left the door open? She had so much on her mind, so many details to tend to before the re-opening, that she might have been careless. The wind was sometimes fierce in Philtwill and could be to blame, Glory told herself. Still, she slipped the pistol from her reticule and inched behind the sheeted tables, keeping to the edge of the space.

But the rooms at the rear of the Pump Room were even darker, and Glory cursed her own foolishness as she shied away from the shadows. Finally, she saw the door standing open ahead and moved towards it, eager to leave the eerie atmosphere of the building. Hurrying over the threshold, Glory released a sigh of relief, only to catch her breath again as a shape loomed up in front of her.

Jerking backwards in alarm, Glory lifted her weapon with a shaking hand and called out in an even shakier voice, ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’

‘Excuse me?’

The low drawl wasn’t what Glory had expected, but she was not about to lower her guard. ‘Stand right there. Don’t move,’ she said, inching away from the presence. Although it was lighter outside, tall sycamores shrouded the Pump Room’s exterior, and she could see little except a dark form, tall and menacing.

‘Do you know who I am?’ it asked.

Although definitely male, the figure was too large to be Dr Tibold, who had made himself a nuisance with his insistence that the well waters be given freely to all—so that he could more easily line his own pockets.

‘No,’ Glory said, even as she wondered whether the physician had hired some thug to ensure her submission. Her heart thundered and her grip on the pistol faltered. This fellow seemed too smooth, his speech too refined, to be a ruffian, and yet all her instincts told Glory that, whoever he was, the man was dangerous.

‘Should I?’ she asked, with more bravado than she felt.