Chapter One
Edwin, his brother,was an utter pain in the ass.Weren’t older brothers meant to be the wiser, more responsible sibling?Yet, as Henley Rosewood, the Viscount Allendale, closed his eyes and leaned back into the soft velvet seat of his carriage, he decided that age was relative.He was two years younger than his brother and quite possibly two decades older in maturity.Maybe more.
As the streetlamps dimly lit the deserted streets of the disreputable neighborhood he found himself in, he certainly felt older than his twenty-five years.He was convinced he could mentally pass for an old saint at this point—constantly saving his older brother from himself.A sardonic smile tipped his lips as he considered the dichotomy, however.In society’s eyes, Edwin was the saint.
Odd how that worked.All it took was one very public failure or scandal—and in Henley’s case both—to ruin one’s good name for eternity in the eyes of the Londonton.
All the while, his brother debauched himself, and Henley stayed home and honorable.Society’s perspective was certainly a cruel bitch.And every bit as vindictive.But he couldn’t lay all the blame at the bosom of society—or even his brother.
No, having honor required accepting the part he played in his own downfall, and he’d certainly done his share of damage.The boxing ring he fought in wasn’t exactly of the gentleman’s variety, and the situation that followed—the death that happened a week later—didn’t exactly appear innocent.Then again, when your fist is the culprit in the last injury a man receives before death, it tends to create talk.He shook his head at the memory and focused on the scenario ahead.
Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes against what he knew was about to happen.It wasn’t the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last, but he fervently hoped he wouldn’t have to render his bloody brother unconscious this time.
He gave a shudder at the thought of his mother’s reaction the last time he’d deposited his unconscious brother on the settee in the parlor.Edwin had sported a black eye and had the audacity to snore as if he’d not been brought back from the gates of hell itself.Their mother had uttered words he’d never heard in a feminine tone—and then turned her glare on him.
As ifhewere the problem.
Truth be told, hewasthe reason the titled Earl of Devon had been bloody and unconscious, so there was indeed some merit in the blame.He shook his head to dispel the memory.
Taking a deep breath, he studied the dark streets as they unfolded beyond the carriage window.Stone stoops led to doors all shut tight at this rather ungodly hour—but then again, these sorts of things never happened during the day.
Too many witnesses.
Too many questions.
The carriage took a left onto a street lit by two sputtering lamps, and Henley’s back stiffened in preparation.Rolling his neck, he anticipated the solid cracking sound that always alleviated some of the tension.The carriage slowed to a stop before a door that held brightly illuminated windows, the sound of music loud in the otherwise silent night.
For the love of God, why couldn’t his brother select a gentleman’s club that was more secretive—or at least more selective in its clientele?
Henley stepped out of the carriage and drew a breath through his nose.The scent of bile and brandy thickly perfumed the air.He knew from experience that it would only get worse inside.With any luck, his brother wouldn’t be too deep within the establishment.
The door swung open suddenly, a man stumbling out, his silver cane catching the stoop and halting his catapult into the street.Righting himself, he tugged on his shirt sleeves, as though he weren’t completely drunk, and lifted his cane from where it had propped him.
Immediately, he began to fall sideways.The lone streetlamp caught the man’s face just enough to illuminate his features.
“Damn it all, Edwin, tell me you’re sober enough to recognize me,” Henley growled, stepping forward and ducking neatly as the cane made a wild swoop while Edwin struggled to regain his balance.
“Hen?Is that you?”Edwin called loudly into the night, hiccupping as he squinted in his brother’s direction.
Henley nodded.“The one and only.”
“Did Mother send you?”Edwin tried to whisper, but the effort resulted in a hoarse but perfectly normal tone.
If only.“No, I sent myself this time.But if you’ll remember, you need to be present for Pere’s presentation tomorrow—bright and early, mind you.”Henley sighed.
It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough to hopefully distract him.As drunk as he was, it would likely work.
“Ah, right.She’s having a season.Season.Seee-son.”He repeated the word, then paused.“Odd word, that.Seeandson.Like something Father would say to us when he was cross.”He nodded, proud of his brilliant observation.
“Yes, English is a rather fascinating language,” Henley replied, holding out a hand.“I have the carriage set.Won’t you come along?”
Edwin nodded once.“Bloody well time you arrived.”He tugged on his coat sleeves again and straightened.
Taking a step forward, he misjudged the stair and fell.
“Damn it.”Henley caught him, holding his breath against the cloying scent clinging to Edwin’s skin.
Why did light-skirts all favor rosewater?It mixed terribly with brandy.Henley’s stomach turned.
