Playing the Rake's Game. Bronwyn Scott

May, 1835

      Ren Dryden believed two things about the nature of men: first, a wise man didn’t run from his troubles and, second, only a foolish man ran from his opportunities. Ren considered himself in league with the former, which was why he’d spent two weeks aboard a mail packet aptly named the Fury, braving the Atlantic and sailing away from all he knew. In truth, a large part of himself had revelled in the danger of the adventure; revelled in pitting his strength against the sea. He even revelled in the unknown challenges that lay before him on land. At last, he could take action.

      Ren levered himself out of the bumboat that had rowed him ashore, tossed the boatman a coin and stood on the Bridgetown dock, feeling a kindred spirit with the bustle of commerce about him. His blood hummed with the excitement of it. Ah, the Caribbean! Land of rum and risk.

      Ren surveyed the activity with an appreciative eye, taking in the vibrant colours of people, of fruits, sky and sea, the scents of citrus and sweat, the feel of heat against his face. It was a veritable feast for the senses and he engaged the feast wholeheartedly. Life began today, more specifically his life, a life of his choosing and his making, not a life predestined for him based on the caprices of earlier generations of Drydens.

      There were plenty of people in London who would say he was avoiding his problems. The list was long and distinguished, ranging from his family, who’d found the ‘perfect solution’ to their little problem of ‘dynastic debt’ in the form of a weak-eyed, sallow-cheeked heiress from York, to the creditors who hounded him through the grey streets of London, even being so bold as to lie in wait for him outside his exclusive clubs.

      There were also plenty of men of his acquaintance who would have bowed to the inevitable, married the heiress, paid the debt and spent their lives blindly acquiring new debt until their sons had to make the same sacrifices a generation later. He had promised himself years ago when he’d come of age he would not be a slave to the past.

      Ren found it rather frightening that not only would those men have bowed to the inevitable, but they would have preferred to bow instead of breaking free. After all, there was a certain comfort to be found in the known. He understood the penchant for the familiar and he pitied the men who craved it. Ren had never counted himself among that number.

      On the outside, perhaps he resembled his peers in clothing, clubs and mannerisms, but inside, he’d always been different, always railed against the things and people that kept him leashed, his hopes restrained by the narrow parameters that defined a gentleman’s potential.

      All that railing had paid off, all that hope was now fulfilled. He was here and he’d broken free, although it came with a price, as freedom always did. If he failed in this venture, his family failed with him; his mother, who had wilted after his father’s death; his two sisters, one waiting for a debut, the other waiting to wed; and thirteen-year-old Teddy who would be the earl of debt-ridden lands should Ren not return.

      Ren’s hand curled tightly around the valise he’d brought with him from the boat. He’d not trusted it to remain with his trunks to be brought ashore separately. His future was in the valise: the letter of introduction and a copy of Cousin Merrimore’s will bequeathing him fifty-one per cent interest in a sugar plantation—majority interest in a profitable business.

      There would be shareholders to deal with, but technically the entire place was his to control. He would not fail. As unseemly as it was for a gentleman of his birth, he’d made it a point to know the dynamics of trade—he’d quietly made investments on the Exchange, invested in an occasional cargo. He’d listened to discussions in Parliament and taken an active interest in political circles when he was in London.

      As a result, he did not come to Barbados without at least some knowledge of Britain’s colonial gem. Nor did he come without his opinions. He would make an honest profit and he would pay an honest wage to see it done. He would not raise his family up by abusing the sweat of other men. Even a desperate man had ethics.

      ‘Ahoy there, Dryden, is that you?’ A tall, bronzed man with sun-bleached hair cut through the crowd, taking Ren by momentary surprise. Ren might not have recognised the man, but he’d know the voice of his one-time best friend anywhere in the world, case in point. London would have an apoplexy if it could see its one-time ballroom favourite now. The Caribbean had bleached his dark-blond hair and tanned his pale skin.

      ‘Kitt Sherard!’ Ren felt his face break into wide grin. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.’ He’d sent a letter on the mail packet preceding him telling Kitt of his arrival, but there’d been no chance to receive a response.

      ‘Of course I made it. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the docks.’ Kitt pulled him into a strong embrace. ‘What has it been, Ren? Five years?’

      ‘Five long years. Look at you, Kitt. Barbados agrees with you,’ Ren exclaimed. He couldn’t get over the completeness of his friend’s transformation. Kitt had always been wild at heart, but now the wildness had entirely taken over. His hair was not only bleached, but long, and his dress more closely resembled the loose clothing of those swarming the docks than the traditional breeches and coats Ren had on. They looked more comfortable too. But the eyes were the same: a sharp, shrewd sea-blue. It was Kitt all right and it felt good to see a friendly face.

      ‘It does indeed.’ Kitt laughed as a pretty, coffee-skinned fruit seller approached, swinging her hips.

      ‘Fresh fruit, me loves, de best on de island. Is this handsome fellow a friend of yours, Mr Kitt?’ She wafted a firm round orange under Ren’s nose, teasing him with its citrusy scent. The persuasion was effective. After two weeks without anything resembling ‘fresh’, the orange was a temptation nonpareil. She might as well have been Eve with the apple, and if Eve had been wearing a scoop-necked blouse like this island beauty, Ren completely understood why Adam had eaten it.

      ‘He’s come all the way from London, Liddie. You be good to him.’ Kitt gave her two coins and took the fruit, tossing it to Ren.

      ‘Are all your friends this handsome?’ Liddie flirted with Ren, the loose neck of her blouse gaping open to offer a quick glimpse of firm, round fruit of a more erotic sort. She flashed him an inviting smile.

      Kitt feigned wounded pride, a hand on his heart. ‘More handsome than me, Liddie?’

      Liddie laughed. ‘You’re too much for a poor girl like me, Mr Kitt. Are you going to introduce me?’

      ‘Liddie, this is Ren Dryden, Albert Merrimore’s cousin. He’s going to be taking over Sugarland plantation.’

      Ren thought he saw Liddie take the slightest step backwards. Her next words confirmed it wasn’t his imagination. ‘There’s trouble out there.’ She shot a warning glance at Kitt. ‘You better tell him about the spirits and the witch woman, Mr Kitt.’ She fumbled with a string about her neck and pulled a necklace over her head. A chunk of black coral hung from a strip of leather. She handed it to Ren. ‘You’re going to need protection. This will keep the bad spirits away.’

      Ren took the charm, unsure of what to say. The idea there was trouble at his plantation was more than a little unsettling. That the trouble involved spirits and a witch woman seemed to portend the ominous. He looked a hasty question at Kitt, who merely shrugged at the mention.

      ‘My friend and I are good Anglicans, Liddie. We don’t believe in spirits.’ Kitt dismissed Liddie’s worries with an easy smile

      Good Anglicans? Ren fought back a laugh at the notion. He didn’t think Kitt had ever been a good anything except a good amount of trouble. Decent simply wasn’t in Sherard’s vocabulary.

      Ren tucked the amulet inside his shirt and Kitt went back to flirting with Liddie. ‘I am a bit jealous though, Liddie. What about me? Don’t I get an amulet, too, just in case?’

      Liddie’s face broke into a pretty smile. ‘Mr Kitt, I pity the poor spirits that mess with you, Anglican or not.’ It was a good note to leave on. Liddie sauntered away, hips swaying.

      ‘She likes you.’ Kitt elbowed Ren. ‘Do you want me to