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  Praise for Elizabeth St. Michel

  The Winds of Fate Reviews:

  myBook.to/TheWindsofFate

  The Winds of Fate “…captivating romance that takes us to the world of seventeenth-century London…Sexual tension and legal and familial intrigue ensue with the reader cheering on the lovely pair.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Winds of Fate “has everything…full of passion, betrayal, mystery and all the good stuff readers love.”

  —ABNA Reviewer

  “Original…strong-willed heroine…I love all of it…the unlikely premise of a female member of the aristocracy visiting a man who is condemned to die and asking him to marry her.”

  —ABNA Reviewer

  Surrender the Wind Reviews:

  http://hyperurl.co/qnu96k

  Surrender the Wind “The lush descriptions of the southern countryside, the witty repartee between the characters, the factual descriptions of battles woven into the storylines, and the rich characters kept me glued to the pages.”

  —Alwyztrouble’s Romance Reviews

  Surrender the Wind received the “Crowned Heart” and National “RONE AWARD” finalist for excellence. “With twists and turns…and several related subplots woven in, no emotional stone is left unturned in this romance.”

  —InD’tale Magazine

  Sweet Vengeance

  Duke of Rutland Series Book 1

  Elizabeth St. Michel

  Sweet Vengeance by Elizabeth St. Michel. Copyright © 2017. All rights presently reserved by the author. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Elizabeth St. Michel.

  ISBN: 0997482427

  ISBN: 9780997482423

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2017909901

  Elizabeth St. Michel

  For my son,

  Edward

  Skill and confidence are an unconquerable army.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  England 1777

  Captain Jacob Thorne forced his way past an army of servants, coming face to face with his father for the first time in his life. The shadow of his past that haunted him. Same cobalt eyes. Same build. Older version of himself. “You think arranging a title would purge your guilt of disposing my mother? I’m a bastard. You put your face on mine but that’s all you gave me.”

  “Would that I could, I’d give you everything. Yet I do have the ability to sponsor you for a title. My estates are vast. Choose what you will,” said the Duke of Banfield in the library of his ancestral home.

  The bloodletting of Jacob’s soul began. The rejection that drove him, fed him for years. “Get my cousin, Ethan Thorne out of Old Mill prison,” he demanded.

  The duke trembled on his cane. “I don’t have such power. He is an enemy of the Crown.”

  Silence bounced between them, clogging Jacob’s throat. “The only thing I have ever asked and you refuse. To think you would do me a favor?” He turned on his heel.

  The duke clasped his arm. “Wait. What you are asking for is treason. I will need time.”

  Jacob glared at the duke’s fingers where he dared to detain him. He had killed men for less. An American privateer with a price on his head, Jacob had taken a huge gamble to get Ethan out of British hands. Who was he fooling? The real reason was to see his father. “Time, I don’t have. I’m very popular with every ship in the British Navy breathing down my neck.”

  “Please, remain. You may change your mind about staying,” said his father who had cared not one whit of his existence.

  Never. Jacob narrowed his eyes on the rich trappings of the library, everything he disdained about the aristocracy and representative of the father he had mourned as a boy. He itched to throw the shelves of leather-bound books to the floor, rip the rich paintings off the walls; tear up the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet.

  “You are my eldest−” The duke’s voice choked.

  The doors snapped open and the equivalent of a sea walrus dressed in a ridiculous Neptune costume, trident and all, entered. “Eldest what?”

  The duke dropped his hand. “I gave orders not to be disturbed. This is Humphrey, your half-bro−”

  “I’m your cousin from the Colonies,” Jacob said.

  Humphrey brightened like a puppy, nose up, tail wagging. “A cousin from the Colonies? You never mentioned we had relatives there, father.”

  Jacob gave a sharp bark of laughter. A half-brother? Of course, the duke would need a legitimate heir. Didn’t take him long to wed and bed to produce one, casting his mother aside, an insignificant house maid. Not the dissipating sting of a slap. More like a punch to his gut, driving the precious air from his body.

  The duke’s face paled, shoulders slumping, he hobbled toward Jacob, his free hand lifting, palm-up. “Go to the Rutland’s costume ball and meet Humphrey’s intended.”

  Jacob shrugged. Why not? To see what a title bought? Sometimes the hardest choices were to see which bridge to cross and which to burn.

  Jacob’s collar chafed. He was the last person in the world to wear vicar’s clothing, but it was the best his father could produce at the last minute. Through a crush of satyrs and Satans, Persephones and Pandoras, he followed Humphrey. The Duke of Rutland had spared no expense for the masquerade ball. Indeed, the surroundings were beautiful, the music soft and lilting and the smiles and chatter of all the revelers predicting the evening to be every success London society had expected. How he’d like to turn his cannons on every one of them.

  A feverish murmur swept through the ballroom. Jacob turned and followed their gazes to the balcony. Diana, goddess of the moon, both bewitching and captivating, her grace defying mere earthly mortals consented to descend from the heavens. He could barely get over her beauty. This was beyond perfection.

  The rich, platinum blonde of her wig had been swept atop her in an elaborate swirl, anchored by tiny pearls. A gathering of curls had been allowed to escape, accenting her luminous eyes under a domino stylishly framed with diamond applique. Her slender figure was well served by a high-waisted gown, the bodice, plunging low to enhance the deep valley of her swelling breasts. The diaphanous silk swirled about her legs as she turned to accept a dance from a young man that devastated her stable of admirers. The sight of her ensnared him as it might any red-blooded man in the room.

  Humphrey cleared his throat. “She is my intended, Lady Abigail Hansford Rutland.”

  A knot of jealousy churned in Jacob’s stomach. So this is what a title bought.

/>   From over her dancing partner’s shoulder, Abigail’s eyes drifted to the gentleman standing next to Humphrey. She misstepped and almost halted altogether. Then she did something she rarely did. She stared at a man. She even caught herself doing it and would have chided herself, except that she couldn’t stop staring. How could she let this happen with a cleric, yet this man seized her curiosity like no one ever had.

  He stood straight and tall. A pronounced aristocratic nose and a strong jaw held a wide full-lipped mouth. Not a handsome face really, but a distinctive one. The Duke of Banfield had begged a last-minute invitation. Humphrey’s cousin? Vicar Banfield from America?

  As a man of the cloth, he did not wear a domino−an encumbrance of his office? Dark, from the long black frock coat and pants to the black hair pulled back in a queue, his bronze skin contrasted with the white shirt tied at his neck. The severe dress did not detract and complimented his striking features. Abby frowned. He seemed a man suited more for the outdoors, not one who spent his time sermonizing biblical works. Why hadn’t Humphrey ever acknowledged possessing relatives in the Colonies?

  Across the ballroom, her father, the Duke of Rutland, nodded his approval with undisguised pride and encouraged her air of refinement in holding court over so many young swains. Despite his disproving nature and sometimes harsh words of late, Abby was never one to disappoint. But how she hated the pretext of her engagement. She had dallied too long. Her father had given an ultimatum and the threat of selecting the first suitor to his liking loomed real.

  He had left her little choice. Her gaze swept to her intended and dearest friend, Lord Humphrey, the Marquess of Banfield, his cherub face animated in conversation. Growing up on neighboring estates, it seemed logical they would marry. Since they were good friends, she had convinced Lord Humphrey to fake a prolonged engagement that they would later end. The desperate ruse secured her more time until she decided what she wanted to do.

  She begged pardon from her dancing partner, smoothed the white silk layers of her gown that swished about her legs and sidled to Humphrey. She threaded her hand through his arm; Humphrey smiled in return, made hasty introductions, and returned to the fever of fierce discussion.

  “The rebel rascal should have his brains blown out and thrown overboard. Excuse me, Lady Abigail,” said Captain Rowland Davenport, dressed in full naval regalia. “We chased that Colonial devil and gave him a broadside but the rogue disappears every time. I vow I will hunt him down.”

  Abby accepted a proffered glass of champagne and surreptitiously glanced at Vicar Banfield to see his reaction to Captain Davenport’s bravado. The vicar regarded her with a pensive expression, his head cocked slightly to one side. It struck her how he resembled a younger version of the Duke of Banfield, Humphrey’s father.

  “Since the American, Captain Thorne makes his favorite cruising ground the coasts of Great Britain, he has created a laughing stock of the Royal Navy,” said her Uncle Cornelius, her father’s best friend and the powerful Duke of Westbrook.

  “He appears a decent sort, treats his prisoners in a gentlemanly fashion,” said Humphrey and his contention earned him a chorus of snorts.

  The vicar grinned at her.

  Did her knees wobble? Ridiculous.

  “That’s after the Yankee traitor relieves them of their property,” Uncle Cornelius said. “The devil has a predilection for acquiring my ships. I’ve been nearly bankrupted, not to mention insurance rates are prohibitive and commerce almost annihilated.”

  Abby looked away from the Vicar. What was the matter with her? She was the daughter of one of the most powerful dukes in England. Bolstered by that confidence she raised her chin. “I don’t understand why the colonists choose to pick a military resolution to their grievances rather than a political one.”

  The heat of several pairs of eyes scorched her. Uncle Cornelius’s glass eye stared at her.

  A violinist slipped his bow across the strings. The discord shuddered up her spine.

  The vicar casually folded his arms in front of him. My God! Did his gaze wander over her body, or was it only her imagination?

  Captain Davenport stroked his throat. “Females are too frail for talk of politics.”

  Abby bristled at his condescending tone and drew herself up ready to correct him when Humphrey patted her hand to assuage the gathering storm clouds. The champagne she sipped rolled over her tongue in a bitter aftertaste. Captain Davenport disgusted her. Rumors abounded that he had assaulted housemaids in his employ. The truth disclosed by her own frightened maid whom he had attempted to molest that very afternoon.

  “She is agitated these days,” Humphrey provided.

  How dare he suggest she yielded to hysterics. Abby ground her heel on his toe.

  In amplified crescendo, Humphrey squealed, “We are all agitated.”

  “They are pirates,” Captain Davenport said. “They operate outside the law pretending to be under letters-of-marque, issued by a Colonial government not recognized in English courts and plundering any quarry ripe for their choosing. The undisciplined savage even had the superb audacity to post a proclamation at Lloyd’s Coffee house in London.”

  With her maid’s debasement fresh in her mind, Abby let go of Humphrey’s arm and placed her hand over her heart. “Was it the proclamation that stated Jacob Thorne, Commander of the privateer armed Brig Vengeance shall sink, burn, destroy, and capture British merchant vessels?” she quoted directly from the London Chronicle. “It appears the American owns an unusual blend of confidence and brashness.”

  Captain Davenport waved a hand in dismissal. “I suppose the cloddish Colonial would present a romantic notion for your sex?”

  Her fingers flexed on the stem of her glass before she released it on a tray. “He appears to enjoy naval combat, anticipating his foes’ maneuvers and then running, feinting and striking, much like a lithe boxer. Did he not use his daring seamanship to escape from the British frigate, Solebay?” She dared to use Davenport’s ship as an example and stood rewarded with his pinched expression, the captain’s incompetence hinted by her ridicule.

  Humphrey choked.

  War had been declared.

  As Humphrey gulped the rest of his champagne, she darted a glance at the vicar. Did his mouth quirk in a half smile? The man stood a mystery. She couldn’t wait to get Humphrey aside and berate him for keeping such a secret.

  Captain Davenport’s eyes bulged. “I guarantee Captain Thorne and his crew will be caught. I will have the pleasure of hanging them.”

  “I do hope something is done,” she demurred. “The colonial privateer has a penchant to raid the British coasts to show us how vulnerable we are in our own beds. Heavens, to think he could be right under our very noses.”

  How odd the vicar’s interest in the linen covered tables behind them. Did he have a sudden passion for crystallized fruit and marzipan? No. He assessed the open French doors.

  Then he looked directly at her, catching her staring at him. His lips curved into a dangerous smile as he lifted his champagne glass in the merest hint of a toast to her. He had the most amazing eyes, a striking cobalt blue and−predatory.

  The jolt she received from those eyes made her conscious of his familiarity and she did everything in her power not to look away. Did her face turn as bright as the punch in Humphrey’s glass? If only the floor would open up and swallow her. He was a man of God and she was acting like an infatuated eight-year-old.

  Refusing to be cowed and to win support for her argument, Abby directed the conversation to him. “What do you say, vicar, about your countrymen?”

  He considered her question, his expression neutral. “Many in America are loyal to the Crown. But Britain made a sad mistake believing that the colonies would never band together in common cause, and instead remain thirteen independent states, jealous of one another.”

  His voice, a deep rich baritone, possessed a firm no-nonsense edge and slipped over her like warm velvet. No wonder he was a man of God. He coul
d woo all sinners across hot coals to a path of righteousness with that voice.

  “Your pardon my lady,” the Vicar held her gaze. “I concur with the captain. The rebels are unrepentant and pathologically unapologetic for their errors in judgment.”

  Abby glowered. Well, what did she expect, a ringing endorsement from the clergy? She was about to say more when her eldest brother, Nicolas, approached with the appearance of a bored, jaded aristocrat. He jerked his head toward the gardens. “A word.” His strained tone belied a different mien.

  Abby gritted her teeth. Begging apologies, she smiled to her guests to disguise the panic leaping into her throat and followed dutifully in her brother’s wake. He knew.

  He led her outside, down the steps and past a row of arborvitae before pivoting on her. “You think you could keep your disgraceful scheme from me? How could you use Humphrey in such a manner?”

  Abigail winced under the heated gaze of her brother, Nicolas Rutland, heir to the Duke of Rutland. He was right of course. To induce Humphrey to fake a betrothal was shameful. “There’s nothing to do for it. Father has commanded me to marry.”

  “No more can you hitch up your skirts to ride a horse, swim in your petticoat in the river or put goldfish in Lady Worth’s soup. Father has to curb your hoyden ways before your reputation is ruined.”

  Abigail winced. So he had heard about those latest events too. “I admit it’s unworthy but it is only a temporary arrangement. Father has been impossible since Mother died.” Her voice trailed off. If only her mother were alive to gentle the severity of Father’s rigid demands.

  Nicolas used to be her ally. Blue-eyed and dark-haired, he grew unbendable like her father as he matured into the duke’s role. “The fact of the matter is Abby, you don’t know what you want. As a Rutland, there is an unyielding requirement of position and power. You are nineteen, time for you to grow up and become the lady you were destined to be.”

  Nicholas was right. She didn’t know what she wanted. She did know she didn’t want to marry, at least, not yet. “Why can’t I have the same opportunities as you? Why do I have to choose from shallow fops whose nannies still wipe their noses, their only pursuit title, privilege and money?”