Two Headlines
Reed Rutherford, the Earl of Standish now, stepped into the foyer of the club he’d only heard of before: The Domus Emporium—a discreet gentlemen’s club set just outside of Mayfair.
Inhaling, Reed detected the scent that was uniquely male and uniquely noble—a subtle blend of cigar smoke, scotch, and expensive colognes he’d always associated with his uncle.
Until recently, he’d only heard of the club from his less-than-upstanding male relatives—now, all dead. A disturbing wave of emptiness washed over him, but he ignored it and took in his surroundings. The understated luxury consisted of gleaming mahogany tables and furnishings upholstered with either leather or forest-green velvet. Two or three dozen candles burned overhead, secured in an understated chandelier dangling from the high ceiling.
A few ladies mingled amongst them, dressed in finery and jewels that would put any duchess to shame. It was the intelligence in their eyes, however, that truly set them apart from ladies of the ton.
That and the fact that they made their living providing all manner of sexual favors.
As Reed picked his way between the felt-covered tables, patrons gradually became aware of his presence, and the low murmurs fell silent. Sharp eyes followed him, and an oppressive hush settled upon the room.
But he would not be cowed, and he narrowed his gaze when an annoying voice cut through the tension.
“What have we here, fellows, but the new Earl of Standish?” The Marquess of Pittsguard, or “Pitt” as he was known, lifted a snifter in Reed’s direction. The seams on the balding lord’s jacket strained against the padding in his shoulders, and if the shirt points on his collar were any higher, they’d likely put the man’s eyes out.
Reed kept his expression bland. He was not fool enough to see the toast for anything other than the mockery intended.
“How lucky for you, Standish,” a second voice leered. “I can only dream that the seven blokes standing between myself and my great uncle’s title would vanish as conveniently as yours have.” Mr. Marshall, one of the younger gentlemen present, raised his glass as well. His hooded eyes and wobbling stance revealed that although it was barely noon, he was already deep into his cups.
Glancing around, Reed realized most of them were in a similar condition.
Likely, they’d been at it all night.
Reed, of course, was stone-cold sober. Despite his new waistcoat, shining Hessians, and perfectly tied cravat, he wasn’t one of them.
“Indeed,” he addressed Marshall, the word dripping in sarcasm, “but not everyone can be so lucky.” Fists clenched at his sides, he was prepared to make the next heckler pay.
Luck—a ridiculous word to describe the tragedy his family had experienced over the past month.
Reed hated being the subject of attention. He far preferred holing up in Rutherford Place, the century-old Standish Mayfair townhouse discreetly set back from the street across from Hanover Square. He’d prefer to be anywhere else, actually, sorting out estate accounts, or even addressing the abundance of vowels he’d inherited along with the title.
And that was precisely what he’d be doing if not for the urgent message he’d received from his long-time trusted friend, Jasper Perry, the Baron of Westcott. Considered to be something of a philanderer, some referred to West as the Piccadilly Player. Ludicrous. Reed pinched his mouth flat. All it had taken were a few dubious accusations from a scorned debutante’s mama and the nickname had stuck.
Which was only one of the reasons Reed had avoided Mayfair as long as he had.
Reed searched the room, eager to find the fellow and learn what could possibly merit such urgency.
Having benefitted from the recent demise of his uncle, cousin, older brother, and father, he’d suspected there would be rumors. Any man in his situation would find himself under intense speculation and scrutiny.
Damn, damn, and double damn.
Because, despite four healthy male relatives having stood between himself and the title, Reed was Standish now—as in Lord Standish.
As in, the bloody Earl of Standish. Something he’d never wished for or wanted.
All four men had perished in the fire that had consumed the hunting cabin at Searidge Manor, his uncle’s estate.
Hell, now it was his estate.
And although the cause of death listed on their certificates was accurate, it was but a small part of the story.
Only a handful of people comprehended the vices practiced by the recently deceased—and how those depravities had come into play. They’d all been incoherent—out of their heads from the combination of opium and alcohol they favored. Even less had heard his uncle’s recent ramblings of ending it all—of escaping this world permanently. Had it been an accident? If just one of them had been even partly conscious, the fire could have been extinguished.
At the very least, they could have escaped and lived to tempt fate some other time in the future.
Reed refused to mourn them. Hell, he hadn’t time to mourn them—what with fielding the massive debts they’d left behind.
