This Rake of Mine by Elizabeth Boyle Read Free Book Online Page B

spoke of more ominous tidings.
    No, there was something wrong. He could feel it in his veins.
    He stopped himself right there. Now he was even starting to think like his crazy old aunt. It was this house, this place, this life. He wasn't cut from the right cloth to do the task he'd been left, but no one believed him. He'd inherited Thistleton Park, lock, stock and secrets, and now he was the master of it all.
    Whether he liked it or not.
    "Harrumph," he snorted, in perfect imitation of Josephine. At this rate, the only thing he'd master was an early demise from chilblains.
    No, he needed something hot to eat and a few hours of sleep—that is, if he could manage it—and then he'd have to determine how to proceed.
    He walked through the long hallway toward the dining room, when a noise from the east wing stopped him. A noise so unusual he wondered if he wasn't already taken with fever, for it was something he hadn't heard in years.
    Why, it sounded like giggling.
    Giggling?
    He shook his wet head. The torrential rains must have not only soaked him to the skin but filled his ears as well. The only other explanation was that Park was haunted, as his secretary, Bruno Jones, averred.
    Haunted! Now that's a lark
, Jack thought. Right up there with his premonitions of disaster.
    But then, oddly enough, the scent of freshly cooking sausages tickled at his nose.
    Sausages? Birdwell was cooking him sausages for breakfast? He was lucky to get cold toast most mornings from his disapproving butler.
    Sausages were as likely as the giggling.
    Jack heaved a sigh, convinced he was going as mad as the rest of the Tremonts who had ever lived at (or rather, been banished to) Thistleton Park, and continued toward the dining room.
    He pushed through the doors, his thoughts focused on what he would need to do once he arose.
    First and foremost, he'd need to compose a report to London on the events of the night, or rather the lack of events, and then there was always the estate business.
    While the place looked ready to tumble down, and the grounds were in a state of
déshabillé
, it actually took some work to make Thistleton Park so inhospitable.
    So very unrespectable.
    He was about to continue through the dining room to the kitchen, being led by the rich scent of not only sausages but also bacon and… he sniffed yet again… if his senses were to be believed, the warm, enticing scent of fresh scones.
    Scones?
    Lord, he was more tired than he thought, for he had to be hallucinating. Yet, lo and behold, there was a bounty laid out on the sideboard before him, enough so that it stopped him in his tracks.
    Though not for long.
    Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth—not on his meager income—he filled his plate and turned toward the table.
    What he spied before him nearly made him drop his breakfast. Nearly, that is, for Jack Tremont was many things, but negligent with a good plate of food was not one of them.
    But still, he could be forgiven this lapse, for seated before him was a sight he couldn't fathom.
    A woman? Seated at his table? It was as likely as the sausages and bacon on his plate.
    "What the devil—" he managed to say as she clambered to her feet.
    "Yo-o-u!" she sputtered back.
    Jack set his plate down on the table before he took a good look at this unexpected, and all too unwanted, guest.
    There was something rather familiar about the plain dress and startling eyes.
    "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
    "This is my house, madame," he said, trying to place the chit.
    Then it struck him. The red hair. The outraged moue. "You're that handful of a teacher from Miss Emery's," he said aloud before he had a chance to stop himself.
    Demmit, he'd been out of Society too long.
    But then again, like his aunt before him, he'd come to see the benefit of being plainspoken and getting straight to the point. "What are you doing in my house? Did my brother send you? I'll tell you right now, Miss… Miss…"
    "Porter," she reminded him