Then, last winter, she’d been convinced a warlock lived next door and that he was intent on sacrificing one of their teachers. Thankfully, there had been no further incidents of Eliza’s imagination for months, and Sophia dearly hoped that her friend had finally matured and put fanciful thoughts away because sometimes her two closest friends could be quite exhausting.
Sophia settled once again in the chair by the window and began thumbing through the drawings of tombs and renderings of what had been painted on the walls, the strange writings, as well as drawings of an actual sarcophagus. Thank goodness there was nothing in these books that would remotely interest Eliza, and more importantly, nothing to ignite her already active imagination.
Chapter 1
Mayfair, London, Spring 1804
“What the blazes are we doinghere, Pickmore?” Henry Cochran, Earl of Kilsyth demanded.
Instead of returning to Mayfair as they should have, Captain Jude Pickmore had directed the carriage to another address still within Covent Garden. The coach came to a halt outside a five story, non-descript house.
“For the fun of it,” his closest friend since Eton answered good-naturedly.
“Fun of it? We were just at the theatre, and I’m quite done up withfunfor the evening.”
“Yes, and you had a marvelous time picking apart the production by pointing out the holes in the plot before you started in on the poorly-tuned instruments, amateur musicians, and lifeless actors,” Pickmore groused.
“Yes, well, the play made no sense whatsoever,” Henry insisted. “I’m afraid the days of Shakespeare are behind us.” At one time, attending the theatre had been one of Henry’s favorite entertainments, but no longer. He trained far better actors and actresses to spy for England than those treading the boards of Drury Lane these days.
“You can still see a goodMacbethwhen you wish.” Pickmore assured him. “But you really do need to relax, and I have just the thing.”
“If you want to relax, why not a brandy at Whites like every other respectable gentleman?”
“Because I’m not in the mood for respectable.”
“But a gaming hell?” Henry glanced out the window again, and then frowned. At least that was what he believed the establishment to be. Unless it was... “Or is it a brothel?”
“It’s both,” Pickmore answered jovially.
“I no longer frequent brothels, nor do I care to gamble.” At least not when the outcome of any wager relied on something so irrational as the roll of a die or toss of a card.
“Perhaps that explains your peevishness,” Pickmore retorted. “Maybe after a tumble or two you might not be so cantankerous.” He turned to look at Henry. “I really don’t recall you being such a prig at Cambridge. Quite the opposite actually.”
“I amnotpeevish nor am I cantankerous,” Henry sputtered. “I simply no longer have the freedoms I once enjoyed.” When they were at Cambridge, Henry’s father and brother were still very much alive, and Henry and Pickmore had quite an enjoyable time. However, two months ago his father and brother had died suddenly after they became ill while they traveled from the family estate to London. One moment they’d been in excellent health and stopped at a coaching inn for dinner and to spend the night, and the next morning they were too ill to travel and soon succumbed to the illness. As the spare, Henry had become the Earl of Kilsyth and his entire life had changed. It was now up to him to marry and produce an heir and a spare when he’d never had any intention of marrying—ever.
His life was dedicated to the Home Office, and his closest friends were the Devils of Dalston, whom he had met at Eton. The ten of them continued their friendship through Cambridge and into the employ of the Home Office. They were still his friends, but Henry would need to relinquish his Devil status to become upstanding, just as his friend, Westbrook, who had also enjoyed life being the spare until he became Earl of Norbright upon the death of his brother in December. Norbright had gone so far as to marry, but Henry wasn’t prepared to make such a sacrifice just yet.
The very idea still made him shudder, but he also knew that with an estate and title he had a duty.
If reforming was so unpalatable, why the blazes was he mentioning White’s over a brothel? Had he really changed so bloody much?
“Well, you may have outgrown the charms of the opposite sex, but I have not.”
“You expect me to wait below while you roll around in bed with a woman you don’t even know?”
Bloody hell, he did sound like a prude, but it was as if the words were coming from his mouth without control. Had he really become such a moralistic dullard?
Oh, that would never do. Not at all. Though Henry didn’t believe a lightskirt the answer, perhaps his life did need to change before he truly turned into a cantankerous old man before he reached the age of thirty.
“Since when has familiarity been required before engaging in a mutually satisfying activity? That never seemed to bother you before.” Pickmore turned to Henry. “What I expect is for you to join me.”
Henry widened his eyes and pulled back. What the blazes?
“Not join me,join me.” Pickmore frowned. “Good God man, since when have you gotten so literal as well? I daresay you’ve completely changed since you inherited.”
He had, and Henry couldn’t understand what was wrong with him? He’d been looking forward to Pickmore’s return, knowing that he would lift Henry out of whatever doldrums that had possessed him of late, only to realize he’d become not only disagreeable, but unpleasant, critical, and had lost all sense of non-literal conversation.
Perhaps his irritation came from keeping to himself in the library. It wasn’t as if he was a hermit, he had visitors—his students, and those associated with the Home Office. However, Pickmore was right about one thing. Henry had changed, and far more than Henry had realized. “There is no need for me to engage with any of the women within,” Henry finally stated
