Chapter 1
London, 1881
“It’s just you and me, mate.”
Anthony Paschal-Lamb, Viscount Corbet — known as Stagshade to some of his closest friends — lifted his flask and took an unsteady drink while seated on his horse.
Before him, on a suitably majestic Richmond Park hill, stood a lone stag with enormous antlers. A grand — nay,royal— buck, if there ever was one.
He coughed on the brandy and grabbed for the front of his saddle to avoid pitching sideways and falling from his mount.What a humiliating way to go: useless, alone, and unable to maintain a seat!he thought.
It was a bad sign that he was communing with deer. But who could blame him? He’d seen his friend Edmund Wake, Lord Montfort, on the way into the park. Riding alongside him in the carriage were his natural son Eddie, now clearly considered part of the family, and a beaming Lady Montfort. It didn’t escape his notice that the lady was looking decidedly blooming about the midsection and seemed to welcome Eddie’s soft pats on her belly. A happy family — how novel.
Following the triumphant wedding of Matthew Bohun, Earl of Peverel, and Miss Sophia Stafford, the wholesome tableau in the park set Anthony on edge. And the only way to deal with that was a good quantity of brandy and a hard ride back to town.
As he thundered past sedately rolling carriages full of picnic-makers waving as he passed, Anthony castigated himself for acting like a child. He was a grown man of thirty-eight years old, with the scars to prove it, not some schoolroom lad scrapping for the last of a tray of sweets. His friends’ happiness didn’t prevent his own. He was solely responsible for that.
Or rather, opening his heart to the wrong lady was responsible for that.One and the same,he thought while pushing his stallion harder.
By the time Anthony had left his horse at home, then walked to White’s, he’d emptied the second flask of brandy and begun planning his night — starting with the drinks. He’d take up residence in his favorite chair and lazily take in the talk surrounding him while remaining blissfully unattached to any particular conversation. None of this creeping domesticity thatchoked him, making him need brandy to wash down the sour taste of the most predictable flavor of happiness.
He was a libertine, one of the last of his generation to escape the shackles, and it was up to him to continue the proud tradition of aristocratic debauchery. He considered visiting a bawdy house or gaming hell, but it all seemed too much work. Simply avoiding the long crook of marriage and babies would need to be sufficient evidence of his commitment to noble ruin.
***
When Anthony walked into White’s, everything went sideways: he couldn’t find the scarf he had lost on his last visit, a band of carousing youths from Cambridge had temporarily wiped out his preferred vintage of brandy, and his second least favorite person in the world was occupying his chosen seat.
Sir Francis Pinchpenny, a baronet, held court from that familiar leather chair Anthony favored. The one he’d broken in with his very own arse on many occasions, so he might enjoy it from now until the moment he expired peacefully while reading the newspaper — ideally in the future, but he wouldn’t argue timing.
“You lads planning to do any carousing while you’re in Town?” asked Sir Francis, swirling a glass of what appeared to be brandy, its amber color suspiciously similar to Anthony’s favorite vintage.
The youths responded most heartily and shared notes on which of the bawdy houses offered the sweetest and sauciest girls. Anthony leaned against the nearby wood paneling, not attempting to disguise himself or pretend he wasn’t staring daggers at Pinchpenny.
They’d been at school together, Harrow, ages ago. At the time, Sir Francis was merely Pinchpenny, which served as both his surname and nickname. Anthony would have felt bad for the boy had he displayed any openness of purse or countenance. From the day they’d met, Francis had been a miserable, sniveling little nothing, and then he grew into an avaricious, cruel man.
“You’ll find, as you grow into old age like me,” said Sir Francis, having clearly learned how to play the crowd in the decades since they’d left school, “the delights of the bawdy house don’t compare to having a willing woman all to one’s self.”
“Don’t tell me you’re about to extol the virtues of marriage!” cried one young blade, deep in his cups.
“Marriage?” asked Sir Francis. “Hardly, my boy! I’m thinking of a mistress. A little slut of one’s own. No need to consider contagion or explain preferences. Just a mindless little doll for your use.”
“Sounds like a wife by another name,” said one of the university boys, elbowing his mate.
“A wife? Hardly,” said Sir Francis, laughing. “No wife would consent to the degradations a mistress will gladly accept. Why,take for instance: I have a woman getting a bit long in the tooth. She’s a good girl, but I’m growing tired of her after so many years. She knows this and doesn’t want to find herself on the street. And I don’t want to be cruel, so I don’t turn her off. So what does she do? Accepts anything I propose. The most degrading acts? Simply removes her clothes and bends over to take whatever I can conjure. Begs for me to fill her. Anything, anywhere.”
Anthony’s legs threatened to give out.
“Why, Corbet, you had her before me,” called Sir Francis. “Was Letitia such a willing little whore when you knew her, all those years ago, or am I just that good at training girls up?”
The wrong vintage burned in Anthony’s stomach as he found himself frozen against the wood paneling, pinned by a question designed to wound more effectively than any newfangled firearm.
“She was a most delightful little harlot when I knew her. Back when I broke her in,” he said, then excused himself from the chamber.
And she broke my heart,he thought on the way out of White’s.
On his way home, Anthony paused in Berkeley Square to vomit in some bushes.
Chapter 2
