Chapter One
London, March 1, 1822
The cold March air punched Hunter Wakefield, the sixth Earl of March, across the face like a bare-knuckle boxer as he staggered out of Sinners Gaming Hell. Two light skirts clung to him, kind enough to escort him to the streets, their laughter loud and practiced. They lingered in the hope of coaxing another shilling of his cursed inheritance from him.
He would have happily obliged them, if he had not already given them a fortune. Hunt had also spent the entire evening into the early morning gambling and frolicking until he grew bored.
There was a small part of Hunt that wished to squander his fortune on sheer depravity. To drown himself in drink, flesh, and ruin until there was nothing left to him but the title.
The funds were never really his; every pound, every shilling belonged to his father, Percy Wakefield. Hunt would’ve gladly squandered it all, like his father before him; however, most of the Wakefields’ current fortune was because of his mother.Her widow’s portion, from a former marriage, had saved the precious March earldom from poverty.
Yet it did not stop his father from perfecting the art of neglect. Hunt was an inconvenience, after all, nothing more. His twin sister, Helen, though the eldest by thirty minutes, had escaped their father’s disdain by the convenience of her sex. She was no threat, or rival, to his preferred heir, his precious nephew, Augustus.
“Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay, my lord?” Charity, one of his regular ladies at Sinners, asked. She played with the buttons of his waistcoat, blinking long lashes up at him.
His great coat and jacket hung from his arm. He’d abandoned them earlier to free himself from any confines. Sinners was the one place he could be himself, or at least it was, until the Belle printed that blasted gossip sheet.
“There he is, the Magnificent Earl of March!” A drunk Duke of St. Clara called out as he tumbled into his waiting carriage.
“The Magnificent Earl!” A few other men shouted in agreement, laughing at Hunt’s new title.
Bloody hell.
Ever sinceThe Rake Reviewwas printed, it was all the Ton could speak about. For one year, the Belle, the author of the infamousgossip rag, targeted a different gentleman every month.
Unfortunately, every single one of the so-called rakes found themselves caught in the parson’s mousetrap. After a year’s holiday, the tumultuous author was back, already claiming two victims to her righteous cause.
Now, Hunt was her next prey. Well, he would not fall, not to some simpering debutante in want of a wealthy husband. He wasn’t meant for marriage; his bastard of a father saw to that by blatantly ignoring Hunt in favor of Augustus.
“I thought we were leaving?” his closest and only friend, Reginald Stanton, the Marquess of Westcott, asked, walking past Hunt and his companions.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I must go,” he said, before gently removing his arms from the ladies’ tight grip.
Following Reg to the waiting carriage, he greeted his coachman, John, ignoring the constant call of the exiting patrons.
“Look how magnificent he is!”
“Hide your wives and daughters, here comes the Magnificent Earl!”
“He’s next for the slaughter, gents!”
Hunt practically threw himself inside, ignoring every abhorrent comment that was being shouted at him.
“Bloody hell! Will this ever end?” He ran his hand down his face, cursing the gossip sheet.
Out of all the titled, pompous lords in London, this Belle had to choose him. Surely, there was nothing wrong with enjoying himself, but this author made it sound wicked.
“Probably not until April when there will be a new unsuspecting rake up for slaughter.” Reg sat back against the leather, his dark skin shining in the moonlight.
They’d been friends since they met at Eton and discovered that they were easy targets for the other boys. The only two of African descent that would inherit coveted English titles—of course, they were preyed upon.
Reg was not a casual acquaintance, someone with whom he’d shared an occasional brandy or practiced bare-knuckle boxing. No, Reg was the brother Hunt had longed for his entire life, especially his first week at Eton.
One particular day, Hunt found himself surrounded with a busted lip when suddenly his attackers were pushed to the side by a dark, tall, skinny boy. He joined Hunt in the center of thecircle, gave him an arrogant smile, and simply said, “Let’s get the bastards, shall we?” before he threw the first punch.
They still laughed about it often. Together, they had defeated four older boys, and from that moment on, they were brothers, fighting back-to-back to ward off their attackers.
Together, they had been unstoppable.
