Page 2 of Dare to Risk it All

We shall be a merry party and not the least bit dull, I promise.

I expect to see you without fail.

―Excerpt of a letter from Prudence Adolphus, Her Grace the Duchess of Bedwin, to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

1st December 1840, Rowsley Hall, Derbyshire.

Raphe peered up at the roof over his head, or rather at the large hole in the roof over his head.

“Needs a bit of work,” Dare mused, tugging at his ear as he looked around at the remnants of what had been a tenant worker’s cottage.

At present, it more closely resembled a pile of stone, with a little thatch clinging boldly to the top.

“A bit?” Raphe repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Well, you ever were the optimist among us.”

Dare laughed and gave a shrug. “Well, no use weeping and wailing about it, is there? Besides, I’ve got someone who wants the bloody place, which is a miracle. Least I can do is get it back in order.”

Raphe nodded, experiencing a stab of guilt as he wondered what condition his own estate buildings were in, never mind the house itself. He had barely enough money to keep himself and his brothers clothed and fed. There was none left over for anything else, and he couldn’t even sell the damn thing, as it and the land were entailed. He’d been forced to abandon his home, sickened by sight of the place falling into disrepair when he could not afford to upkeep it.

“The walls appear to be solid enough,” Raphe said begrudgingly, tugging at a thick ivy branch that had crawled inside the building via the dilapidated roof. “And the timbers look sound, though how is beyond me.”

“Yes, and the windows just need new glass. The bottom of the door has rotted out, but that’s nothing major. So, we just need to strip the old thatch, clear it out, and do some repairs. Not half as bad as I thought it might be.”

Raphe snorted in amusement.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you’re itching to get started. We did a great job at the cottage over at Upper Ox Pasture. You enjoyed it.”

The look Raphe returned was incredulous. “Did I sound like I was enjoying myself?”

“No,” Dare admitted. “You bitched and complained the entire time, but I could tell you were enjoying yourself all the same. Better than sitting about drunk off your head and bored to death, isn’t it?”

Yes. He could not say it to Dare, but Raphe had to admit—to himself, at least—that it was a good deal better than that. He’d lost his way some months ago, lost himself in a pit of despair so deep he’d not had the strength to climb out again. Thank God his friends had come for him. He owed them a great deal. Dare, August, and even Bainbridge had all stood by him. They’d hauled him down to Dare’s estate and got little thanks for doing it, Dare especially. The poor bastard, newly married and blissfully happy with his new wife, had taken Raphe in.

Raphe had been belligerent and angry and bloody ungrateful, and Dare had heeded none of it. He’d cared for Raphe as if he were his own brother, likely better than Raphe had ever cared for any of his.

Raphe sighed and began taking off his coat.

“What are you doing?” Dare asked, watching him in surprise.

“Well, if you’re serious about sorting this bloody heap of stones out, we’d best get on with it, though why you must do it with your own hands when you’ve got about two hundred workmen on the estate is beyond me.”

Dare grinned at him and followed suit, stripping off his own coat and waistcoat. Thankfully, they’d both worn old clothes to visit the dilapidated property. The crisp December day was chilly, but the sun glowed through the hole in the roof, turning the interior of the little cottage to gold and warming Raphe’s back through his shirt.

“I don’t know. Like to feel useful. It’s all Elspeth’s money getting the place back in order and… well, it makes me feel less of a parasite, I suppose. Besides which, I’ve found I enjoy it. Strange, isn’t it, to enjoy hard work?”

Raphe snorted. “Madness is what it is, and you’ve infected me with the same peculiar disease.”

Dare laughed, a familiar sound from the jovial fellow and Raphe’s conscience pricked. He was lucky to have such a friend. He owed Dare so much, more than he could ever repay.

“Dare,” he said, and then stopped when Dare turned to him. Heat crept up the back of his neck and the moment stretched out with increasing awkwardness, but he had to say something. Anything. “Thank you,” he managed, frowning down at the flagstones beneath his feet so he could avoid Dare’s penetrating gaze.

His friend stared at him, perplexed. “For bringing you down here to work in this dirty old hovel?”

Raphe rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, aware that Dare knew damn well what he was trying to say and was just being obtuse for the fun of it.

“No,” he said with exaggerated patience. “For — Oh, hell, for not abandoning me to myself. For putting up with me at my most disgusting. You’re a true friend, Dare, and I promise I’ll not make such a spectacle of myself again.”

Dare laughed and waved this off. “You’d better not. Rothborn will have your guts for garters, I reckon. Scary devil, isn’t he? He always makes me want to check my boots are shiny and adjust my cravat.”