Chapter One
Oxfordshire, 1882
The Duke ofCarlisle landed at his half brother’s estate in Oxfordshire with a small cadre of servants and one armed guard, dusty, travel-worn, and weary. It seemed wrong somehow to arrive at Clay’s wedding after having spent the previous night surrounded by the most depraved and licentious acts imaginable.
Or at least those imaginable to Leo, and his mind was blessed with a boundless creativity for the wicked.
But here he was, prepared to do his duty.
Duty was everything to him, for it was all he bloody well had.
He was also late, the hour approaching midnight, but he had allowed himself to be distracted at a tavern blessedly in possession of a hearty store of spirits. It was possible that he was drunk as well, having consumed roughly enough ale and wine to float the Spanish Armada.
A poor decision, that. He ought to have arrived earlier like a gentleman.
He flung open his carriage door and leapt down without waiting for it to reach a complete stop. Fortunately, he was blessed with a cat’s stealthy reflexes even when bosky, and he landed in the gravel on two booted feet with effortless grace.
Farleigh, one of the men standing guard over Harlton Hall whilst his brother’s wife-to-be continued to be in danger, approached him first. The political assassination of her husband had left her a target for a particularly ruthless ring of Fenians.
An unfortunate business indeed. One Leo was doing his utmost to rectify. The criminals would be brought to justice by his hand, one way or another. Death was just as swift a sentence as prison. He would choose death for the miscreants over imprisonment every time.
“Your Grace,” Farleigh said, bowing. “You ought to take better care. You could have been injured.”
Leo flicked a cold gaze over the man. “Yet, I was not. Is the entire household abed, sir?”
“There are some who have awaited your arrival. They will see to it that your belongings are taken to the proper chamber and you are settled.”
Leo’s lips thinned. Apathy, as vast as it had ever been, was a chasm inside his chest, threatening to consume him. Likely, he ought to find his chamber, order a bath, and scrub himself clean of the stink of London and the road.
But all he truly wanted was more liquor and some distraction, not necessarily—but preferably—in that order.
“Have there been any incidents since the relocation from London?” he asked sharply.
Even in his cups, he could not shake himself of the burden of his duties. He was the leader of the secretive branch of the Home Office known as the Special League. The safety and well-being of England’s citizenry was in his hands. And the plague of the Fenian menace was evidenced everywhere these days: bombs exploding across England, vicious murders carried out, all in the name of Irish nationalism.
Some days, he needed to over imbibe.
He allowed such a weakness once per month, no more.
“There have been none, Your Grace,” Farleigh confirmed. “The decision to leave town and come here with Her Grace was a wise one.”
“Of course it was,” Leo drawled. “I made it.”
Aware of his rudeness and not giving a good goddamn, Leo stalked past Farleigh, his long legs taking him up the stairs leading to Harlton Hall. He did not bother himself with the details of his trunks or even which chamber had been assigned him. Instead, he went in search of his quarry.
Whisky. Brandy. Ale.Holy hell, even Madeira would do at the moment, and he disliked it intensely. He was in a foul mood, and he did not know why, other than that the Fenians continued to outmaneuver him.
No one outmaneuvered the Duke of Carlisle, by God.
He stalked through the entry and main hall, and was about to acknowledge defeat, when he strode into a darkened chamber and collided with something soft. Something feminine and deliciously scented.
Ah, lemon and bergamot oil.
Something—his hands discovered a well-curved waist—or rathersomeone.
“I beg your pardon,” the lady said with a huff and the slightest lilt to her accent he could not place.
“You may, but perhaps I shall not grant it,” he said, feeling like the devil tonight.
