Page 1 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

Chapter One

London, 23 June 1814

One more. Just one more question about his lack of a spouse, and he would put his fist through a fucking wall.

Gritting his teeth, Lord Iain “Vice” Vissen continued his social rounds of the secondary ballroom at Fallen, the exclusive London pleasure club he co-owned with his closest friends Lord Sebastian St. John, known as Sin, and Lord Grayson Deveraux, known as Devil. Sin managed the staff and Devil all the financials; but right from the start, Vice had managed the floor. He produced and performed in the sexual shows and themed balls, and also ensured every club member’s comfort and enjoyment. Yet even as this evening’s Midsummer Night pagan extravaganza appeared a tremendous success, for the first time he wished he were anywhere else, just to escape the meaningful looks and pointed interrogations.

It never used to be this bad. But with Sin marrying his beloved Grace, then Devil and his estranged wife, Eliza, blissfully reconciling, now half the fucking ton had turned their matchmaking gaze on the lone straggler of the trio: Vice. The grande dames weren’t even treacle-coating their comments anymore. He was a too-dedicated bachelor. Too inclined toward liaisons of a short duration. Worst of all, too raw and hot-blooded—which actually meant just too Scottish.

Ha. The plaintive wail of the delicate Sassenach. Scots were warriors. Always had been, always would be. That was fact. And until his dying day, no matter what soil he stood on or the company he kept, he would never dishonor the Highland blood that flowed strong and true through his veins. If it meant he never found his one special lady, well, that would have to be that. Besides, it wasn’t like his special lady existed anyway. Wellborn, marriage-minded women tended not to set their cap at men who cared little for politics or war, craved the applause and admiration of theater roles, were painfully detail-obsessed perfectionists, and oh yes, loved frequent bouts of public fucking.

Soul-deep happiness was for a lucky few. And that number did not include him.

“Vice! Yet another triumph of party perfection, darling. How do you do it?”

Startled out of his musings, he bowed to a masked countess possessing ample curves, a come-hither smile, but regrettably, ebony hair. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads he would—and did—enjoy with abandon both onstage and off. But if she had black hair, or worse, black hair and sky-blue eyes, he wouldn’t bed her for all the guineas in England. The last thing he wanted was any memory of the past, and what a mindless, trusting fool he’d been as a younger man.

“Well, my dear.” Vice took the lady’s hand and brushed his lips over it. “I am always inspired to outdo myself by a beautiful woman. But this evening is far from perfect, unfortunately.”

“Poppycock,” she simpered. “It couldn’t be improved upon.”

Laughably incorrect. The urns weren’t quite in a straight line, the right-side bonfire had two more orange silk flames than the left, there were four silver cake forks with a faint smudge, and the sugar-dusted apple tarts still weren’t on the damned dessert table. “If you insist. I must say, I can’t see how his lordship ever lets you out of the bedchamber looking as delectable as you do. Never seen such a naughty, er…”

“Rose fairy,” she purred. “But not naughty, sweet as honey on the tongue.”

Honey. Dessert. Apple tarts. Christ Almighty, why weren’t they out on the table? It was literally impossible to find good staff in London. He might as well do everything himself.

“Hold that thought.” Vice squeezed her hand. Perhaps once he’d resolved the dessert matter, he could break his ebony-hair abstinence. The countess had claws, and he was more than ready for a rough, hot ride. “I’ll return shortly, but I have an issue I must see to. Don’t leave and break my heart, now.”

Expertly weaving his way through the crush while smiling, shaking hands, and kissing cheeks, he finally found Nell. The sprightly, no-nonsense lady had been Grace’s maid-companion and now assisted with event preparation. She directed staff with the nerve and bark of a general, and he quietly adored her.

“Nell, if you could stop ogling naked men for a moment, where the hell are the apple tarts? I specifically ordered them out a quarter hour ago!”

The silver-haired woman smiled calmly. “Well, well, if it isn’t the bear with a burr in its paw. You really should—”

“If you say find a wife, you’re gone. Unemployed. Out on your rump.”

“I was going to say visit the toy room, get some oil, and uncork your bottle. You’re far too on edge, poppet. Besides, I’m hardly going to judge anyone’s unmarried status, am I?”

Vice scowled. Bloody woman, bringing truth and logic to a sentiment fight. “Perhaps. But every part of me is primed to perfection and in fine working order. Unlike your staff.”

“I don’t know what your complaint is. The apple tarts are out. I held the door for a footman carrying them myself.”

“Then why, pray tell, aren’t they on the dessert table?”

“What?” Nell glanced over at the refreshment area and frowned. “Oh. Wretched temporary staff. They never work out. I’m surprised you hired a beginner like Murray for such an important event.”

“What are you blathering about now? I never hired any temporary staff for tonight, beginner or otherwise.”

“But the footman…he said you did. As a favor to a friend. He was outfitted in our livery.”

Vice froze as every hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” The growing anxiety and anger on Nell’s face spelled doom for the lad if she caught him. “Why, that little bastard. Swindled his way in good and proper, then.”

“Indeed,” he said slowly, his tone belying the fury surging through his body. “So we have a spy in our midst. Do you think from the church, perhaps a reformer? An heir attempting to win a bet? Or something more sinister?”

“Hmm. The lad had a cockney accent, but that could have been false. He was fresh-looking, no jaw shadow or brawn to speak of. Rather tall, perhaps up to your chin. White wig, blue eyes. Perhaps spying on someone’s behalf?”