ChapterOne
A BROTHEL, SOMEWHERE IN LONDON
February 1821
Lord Dominic Hugo Rotherby withdrew from his entanglement with unusual regret. It wasn’t that his fair companions were difficult to leave, all such pleasures came to an end after all, but he was to trade their peachy skin and dulcet tones for a much less agreeable task, and he wasn’t in the mood for murder.
Thoughtfully, he surveyed his sleeping companions, their limbs entwined like sirens, wondering where to hide their fee so neither had the chance to abscond with the whole. He’d been burned before, and had no desire for that curmudgeon, Johns, to be sending demands any time soon. His noble lips twitched as he recalled the last time one of Johns’s surly henchmen tried to gain admittance to his townhouse, only to be confronted by his fiercely protective household who sent him on his way with the aid of a poker and a sharp reprimand. Benson, his elderly butler, and Mrs Farleigh, his housekeeper, were still a force to be reckoned with, even in their dotage– though it didn’t stop them worrying their young master was dicing with the devil.
Suppressing a smile, he leaned low over the copper-headed beauty to graze the rise of her pale breast, before crossing the floor to slip four shillings into their discarded stockings. He liked to be generous where he could and tonight he had appreciated their company more than usual.
‘Thank you, Rotherby darling,’ her sable-haired friend murmured, before drifting back to sleep.
He nodded as he picked up his pocket watch, its tiny archaic arms glinting back in the moonlight. It was a poignant reminder and his gaze narrowed briefly before he retrieved the rest of his scattered clothing, and dressed with the same careless grace that always made his tetchy tiger grin.
Horace, the most talented and exceptionally ill-humoured member of his household staff, was just a grubby orphan when Dominic chanced upon his skill with his precious team of chestnuts. Yet in less than a few months, he was managing the entirety ofhis guvnor’sstable with the kind of canny acumen that made his lordship the envy of the ton. He was also the only member of his lordship’s domestic staff with courage enough to tell him exactlywhathe thought, preciselywhenhe thought it, and his guvnor’s relaxed Corinthian style had long been a source of great amusement to him.
Wryly, Lord Rotherby recalled the many times he’d flown some lady’s lodging in a state of complete disarray, only for Horace to spend the greater part of the homeward journey mopping up tears of laughter. This brutal honesty, coupled with an unerring ability to know ahigh-stepperfromarum ’unwhile remaining singularly unimpressed by any amount of devilish driving, had established him most firmly in his lordship’s affections. And now he was his guvnor’s most valued member of staff, with strict instructions to revert immediately should any of his less-than-noble friends attempt to poach him– which they had, on numerous occasions.
Lord Rotherby sat down to pull on his spotless Hessian boots– his only fashionable quirk– before casting a final, rueful glance back at the most agreeable hour he’d spent all week. Perhaps, with hindsight, he should have stuck to the opera house these past few months and not compromised his usual rule that his interests should be married and bored, or widowed and free.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Exhaling softly, he made his way from the room and down the rickety backstairs of the old theatre where Augusta, Johns’s eagle-eyed wife, was keeping vigil in her usual chair. He nodded. He might enjoy the crime, but he didn’t have to court the villains.
‘I trust you enjoyed your company, m’Lor’?’ Augusta asked, her sly words rasping inside her rotten teeth.
‘Our opera girls have quite the reputation to uphold!’
Then she laughed in the way that always grated his nerves.
‘Indeed,’ he returned smoothly.
‘Their falsetto was sublime!’
‘Which is why you’ll understand that I’ve paid them directly, Augusta, so that they might nurture their talents.’
Her laughter died away as he stepped past her into London’s crisp and starry night with a faint smile. It might be hypocritical, but Augusta and Johns were the worst of their kind, and if it weren’t for their monopoly, he’d never cross their threshold at all.
Briefly he paused to fasten his great-coat and assemble his thoughts, most of which related to a growing regret at having disposed of his tiger’s services, given the bone-cold night. In fairness, Horace had been considerably unimpressed when he suggested he might walk back to Grosvenor Square.
‘Y’sure y’ain’t still in your cups, guvnor?’
It had taken all Rotherby’s efforts to assure his cantankerous tiger that he was, in fact, quite sober and, while it had elicited a monologue of fluent cursing that won even his lordship’s admiration, he had conceded in the end. And now Lord Rotherby wished he hadn’t bothered.
The night had taken an unusual turn and rather than a leisurely midnight walk, his mind was focused on more practical considerations, such as whetherTheRotherby Lady, his luxury yacht, could be readied imminently for a Channel crossing. The weather wasn’t ideal, but his crew had enjoyed generous leave this year, and they were all reliable. Then there was his Grosvenor Square household to consider, and the fact that he’d fully intended to withdraw for a shooting party in the late spring. He exhaled as a myriad of seasonal commitments and half-formed plans competed for attention. Yet the night was still young, and while this whole matter was an entirely unforeseen nuisance, there was time.
Whistling softly, he pulled a hip flask from the pocket of his coat and took a deep draught. Brandy was his usual defence against the cold and briefly he congratulated himself, whisky would have had only half the desired effect. Then he set off in the direction of Park Lane, the toniest of all addresses, appearing to all who might see him to be the most carefree bachelor in town.
In truth, at a heady eight-and-twenty years, he really was quite content that ambitious mothers only ever eyed him with two questions in mind: the first related entirely to their unmarried daughters and, when they’d mourned the possibility of a dazzling match long enough, the second only to themselves. He was also quite certain that the advantages of remaining a black sheep on the marriage martfaroutweighed any short-lived wedded bliss. Not only was he invited to the grandest balls, the most select hunting parties and desirable of soirees, their hostesses knew far better than to ask him to do anything but enjoy himself. Indeed, he’d discovered that so long as he kept to a few basic rules, andneverevertalked of love,his wild reputation ensured two more important things: firstly, a steady line of worshipful bucks trying to behim, and secondly an even longer line of seasoned ladies determined to bed him. And, while this happy adoration perpetuated his myth as anonpareilamongst the gentleman, and anarchfiendamongst the ladies, his glinting eyes and cavalier grace ensured he remained the regret of every matriarch of the ton. In short, it was safe to say that Lord Dominic Hugo Rotherby– daring gambler, devilish dueller and notorious rake– was excessively content with life, and his place in it.
Which only made this evening’s turn of events an irritation, to say the least.
He sighed as he pulled off his silk cravat, tied in a swift Georgian knot, before loosening his high shirt collar to reveal a golden throat many a young lady had eyed over her ratafia.
‘For I’ll be damned if I spend any last night trussed up like a roast bird,’ he muttered to himself, wondering if he might just as well finish the brandy.
His dawn assignation was creeping closer, and he had no desire to duel sober; he was a crack shot either way, but the consequences were far less troubling when he was fortified.
