Kitabı oxu: «Into The Hall Of Vice»

For teachers, librarians, and bookworms of every variety. Long live the beauty of reading romance.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Book List

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

Cole Hewitt eased lower on the velvet-backed bonnet chair and angled his hips a fraction to the right. Circumstances were glorious at the moment, not at all like the reality of his lacklustre existence. Especially here in a quality establishment like Lady Eliza’s House of Pleasure. Granted, Eliza was no more a lady than Cole was an earl, but the pleasure part couldn’t be truer.

And that was why brothels existed, wasn’t it? To help men ignore the harsh truisms of daily living until forced to bear the brunt of their decisions. Although harsh wasn’t the correct word. As one of the proprietors of an exclusive London gaming hell, he’d established wealth and respect at the early age of twenty-four. Along the way, he’d obtained a fine apartment, purchased several superior thoroughbreds, and honed his pistol skill to crack shot at no less than thirty paces, all within three years.

Nevertheless, outward appearance and inward turmoil were at odds every day of the week. It was as though several different personalities lived within him, all embroiled in argument.

A delicious tremor of pleasure overrode his introspective considerations. He glanced down to where a silky auburn tress traced across his thigh. Threading his fingers in the length, he brushed it away and a groan escaped upon her deliberate downward stroke.

He was a son of a bitch, bastard by-blow, born on the wrong side of the blanket and comfortable with life among the jackals, card sharks, and common folk who composed his closest kin. Still he remained balanced on the fine line between bastardry and the realm, nimbly positioned on the cutting blade of a dagger, aware of unsavoury alliances, weaknesses of the peerage, and the unexpected damage that could be done if he did not tread with care. He asked little of life, his expectations few; he had long ago abandoned the notion that the normal privileges due respectable gentlemen were within reach. Family, love, loyalty; they existed for other men.

Life was all about perception anyway, wasn’t it? People saw what they wished to see, hardly sparing the time to look closely before passing judgement; never realising things are often not how they appear.

He quirked a half-smile and settled his gaze on the eager-to-please miss below. Things were exactly how they appeared at present. Allowing his eyes to fall closed, he surrendered to sensation, annoyed with his wandering stream of idle thought. Since when had he become so jaded as to not enjoy a good bobbin’ on his nobbin? His cock twitched, demanding well-deserved attention to the ambitious activity in his lap. He let every niggling protest and doubt fade away until he shut out finer emotion. Now was not a time for introspective examination.

Lady Gemma Amberson, sister to the Duke of Kent and impatient guest, displayed her lead at the Loo table during the Bardsleys’ Friday evening card party. It was one of the few weekly gatherings her brother, Hugh, permitted without question and, although playing Loo was not high on her list of desirable social distractions, she would never eschew the opportunity to escape Stratton House. Life within suffocated her spirit. An immediate frown threatened at the thought of Rosalind, her younger sister, but she dashed it away for the sake of appearances.

Gathering the chips at the centre, she caught the notice of Lord Winton across the table, one of the five regular players in attendance. His relationship with her deceased father was older than a decade, though Winton was years younger. He was a sly scoundrel and far too handsome gentleman who often accidentally brushed his boot against her slipper or nudged her elbow as he dealt cards, the strength of his forearm pressing against her satin glove belying his claim of clumsiness.

Her brother would be overjoyed were she to accept Winton’s suit and begin a formal courtship, despite his being several years older than she. Title excused the man’s advanced experience and he was a viscount, after all. It was no secret Kent would celebrate with great relief at foisting her off to become another gentleman’s headache. Her future distracted from his primary focus of legal issues and Parliamentary concerns. She wondered at the rigorous investigation any suitor would endure in order to meet her brother’s high expectations, but consideration was all for naught. Courtships were the last thing on her mind, and if her dear brother had any inkling as to why she tortured herself by playing Loo and perpetuating congenial conversation with the assortment of guests attending each Friday, he’d likely suffer an apoplexy.

Accepting the next card in the circulating deal, she flashed a brief smile left to Lady Sophie Daventry, a skilful Loo player and kind friend seated at the next table. Though they rarely paid call to each other, their paths often crossed in social circles and Gemma considered her one of the more sensible females who frequented the Bardsleys’ ensemble. She also believed Sophie hid a personal agenda much like her own. Someone who possessed refined features, silver-blonde hair and pale-blue eyes couldn’t possibly wish to spend evenings in a stuffy salon of fifteen guests and poorly prepared rout-cakes. Catching Gemma’s perusal, Sophie returned her kind regard.

It was a guarded secret, communicated through furtive glances and clandestine whispers, that the Bardsleys’ weekly card party offered a bounteous opportunity to filter through the most current gossip, as well as provide a chance where one might introduce well-rehearsed questions in an effort to ferret out information a person hoped to uncover. Gemma clung to this societal myth and suspected Sophie did the same.

‘And there you have it.’ Winton laid his card on the table face up. ‘The Ace of Trumps.’

Two players at the table immediately tossed in their hands, unwilling to risk the loss of chips, while Lord Goddard, a fubsy elderly gentleman who complained more than contributed, debated his next move. Gemma held with confidence. Goddard eventually exchanged his card and then, disenchanted with the result, folded straight after. Winton offered her a stare that spoke more of dark secrets in bedchambers than victory at the Loo table.

‘Good play, Lord Winton.’ She toyed with her card, unwilling to reveal the face as of yet and more than a little uncomfortable with Winton’s direct attention. She tolerated his company in respect to her father’s association only.

‘Haven’t I told you countless times to regard me as James? We join together every Friday night…’

Lady Bendolin’s sharp intake of breath caused Gemma’s eyes to flare more than Winton’s intentional inflection and pause. The other gentlemen at the table stifled their amusement.

‘To share cards and polite conversation. I would think, after weeks of routine, we’ve gained familiarity.’ Winton smiled. If ever there was a Cheshire grin, this man owned it.

‘Milord, you’ve shocked Lady Bendolin with the suggestion I address you by your Christian name.’ Hardly. ‘Perhaps this discussion is better served another time.’ She presented her card, the Queen of Hearts, and collected three more chips.

‘Exactly.’ Winton stood unexpectedly. ‘I’m for a breath of fresh air. Lady Amberson, would you spare me a moment?’

Startled, for his invitation was impetuous, Gemma gathered her winnings from the ivory damask tablecloth to deposit neatly inside her reticule. ‘Nary beyond a moment, milord. I’m on a winning streak.’

‘I will endeavour to abide by your rules if for once you will address me as James.’

‘Good heavens, he’s persistent,’ Lady Bendolin grumbled in an undertone, the older woman visibly affronted. ‘You best go with him so we can resume the game upon your return.’ She gestured in the general direction of the hallway. ‘I feel parched. Where is the footman with refreshments?’

Gemma stood and hurried around the table to accept Winton’s elbow and follow him onto the terrace towards the rear gardens. He did not pause until they’d travelled a good distance over the slates, away from the house, where any shared conversation would not be overheard. She glanced to her right, aware he’d also advanced sufficient distance so any objection would go unnoticed.

A few paces from where she’d stopped, Winton stood with his eyes on the inky sky. Outlined in moonlight, his profile depicted an attractive gentleman, but what did she truly know of his character? The extent of his past history with her father was unknown to her. Winton turned then, as if he’d caught her observation and divined her guarded scepticism.

‘Why are you here, lovely Gemma?’ His voice dropped low and silky with the question.

Did he speak in the broader sense or did he refer to their present situation? She could not know. ‘I did not give you leave to use my given name.’ She achieved a tart tone.

‘Let’s not bother with the inconvenient rules of polite society when we are here in the garden, just the two of us. His Grace isn’t present to disapprove.’

‘I don’t give a fig about my brother’s opinion.’ She took a step closer. Perhaps she could read Winton better if she looked him straight in the eye. She wasn’t afraid to do so. What could he possibly want?

‘Silly girl, of course you do. He’s a duke, the most distinguished and highest-ranking peer in England aside from the Prince Regent, and my reach does not extend to Prinny. Besides, most convenient of all, Kent is your older brother and in charge now.’

Winton chuckled in a dismissive masculine manner that caused her fingers to curl into fists. She swallowed against immediate emotion, her father gone only two years and her heart still tender from the unexpected tragedy.

‘This leads me to my original question of your faithful attendance here at this mind-numbing, stodgy little card party, when you surely possess more spirit. What motivates you to return week after week when you could be dancing at a soiree or blushing in a ballroom corner with an attentive suitor? You are a diamond of the first water, a rare bloom for some fortunate gentleman to pluck.’

Her heart pounded with a beat of panic as he stepped closer. She had no desire to be plucked. At least not at the moment, and never would it be Lord Winton who accomplished the plucking. ‘I could ask you the same.’

‘I’m flattered by your high opinion.’

She wrinkled her nose at his vainglorious misinterpretation but remained silent. Only two paces separated them now. He searched her expression and she purposely kept it bland. The stone wall at his back had an unlatched wrought-iron gate where she could escape if need be, but she doubted Winton would exercise poor judgement. By his own admission, her brother was a powerful man and she knew Winton curried his favour.

‘I wonder, lovely Gemma,’ he gentled his tone and advanced a step, ‘if His Grace would be interested to learn you attend this gathering to ferret out information concerning your father’s untimely death.’

Caught by surprise, she inhaled a sharp breath, though she recovered soon after. ‘Nonsense, and I take offence at the mention of my dear father’s passing.’ Her voice quivered with emotion.

‘Come now. You don’t believe me obtuse.’ He shook his head in the negative. ‘I’ve overheard your discreet enquiries and noticed several endearing attempts to steer conversation in an interesting, though particular, direction. I only mention it so I may be of service.’

He offered her a half-smile that brought to mind a wolf who invited the sheep to join him for dinner. Something was amiss. Had Winton watched her weekly? Every word, each suggestion? Whenever she’d grown uncomfortable with the weight of his stare, she’d assumed it was his lascivious nature and nothing more. How much did he know and could he be trusted? Desperate for any scrap of information, there could be something learned if she heard him out, but would he in turn report her activity to Kent? Above all things, her brother could never know the true reason she attended Loo like it was religion class. He’d already caged her in under the guise of protection. What horrid Fate would life become if Kent lost trust in her altogether?

‘What do you want?’ She couldn’t be more direct, anxious to return indoors where happenings proved more predictable.

‘Straight to the point.’ He slanted her an appreciative glance. ‘All I wish is the chance to know you better. To spend time in your company.’

Befriend my brother, no doubt. Advance your social standing. Align your ambitions. Increase your reputation. But she didn’t voice these plentiful conclusions and instead set her lips in a firm line to keep the accusations captive.

‘Oh, I know the wheels are spinning inside your lovely brain, but the longer we stay outside, the more opportunity we offer those indoors to speculate about our absence and conjure unsavoury gossip. Let’s keep this simple. I’ll kindly tell you something I’ve learned of that evening in exchange for a kiss.’

He couldn’t have surprised her more had he doused her with a bucket of cold water, his proposition the last thing she’d expected, and her expression must have revealed the shock.

‘Don’t look surprised. Surely you own a pier glass, Gemma. You are a fair-haired beauty beyond compare. I find, despite my best efforts, you occupy my thoughts.’

His voice had gentled considerably; still, better sense took hold, warning his flattery could only be intended as subterfuge in service of a greater goal.

‘How do I know you will tell me the truth? You offer me a bit of information that I have no way of pursuing until after I grant your request. I’m not so blinded by your flummery that I would make a bargain with the devil.’ She held his gaze with the question, her chin notched higher.

He chuckled this time, long and thoroughly, as if bemused at how easily she’d turned the tables. ‘Very well then.’ He eyed the house to secure no one watched from a window or ventured outside. ‘I will extend you a boon, this first bit of information gratis. When you discover I tell the truth, be prepared to remit payment next Friday and do wear the pink gown with the white embroidery. It brings out the green in your eyes like a right English rose.’ He stepped towards the slate path, his back turned for less than a moment. ‘Your father visited Miss Devonshire in her home on the corner of Edith Avenue in Charing Cross the night of his death.’ He nodded, assured and self-congratulatory, as if he wished to lock the information into her brain. ‘I will see you next Friday night.’ Then he left and she stared after him, bewildered by the rapid turn of events, intrigued by the first clue she’d gleaned concerning her father’s unnatural departure, and anxious to devise some way to learn more.

Chapter Two

Cole locked Charlatan’s stall, housed within the supervision of Marleybone Livery, and began his walk home. It was a clear, starry night and despite his jaunt to Covent Garden, meant to chase away perpetual restlessness, he couldn’t shake the disquieting agitation that hummed within. He needed distraction. Something meaningful to define his purpose. Of late it seemed he helped everyone except himself.

For half a breath he considered visiting the Underworld, the gaming hell he owned and operated with two associates, Maxwell Sinclair and Luke Reese, but in a last-minute decision he aimed towards home in desperate need of a solid night’s rest. Besides, it was his turn to be absent from the hell. More and more he was at a loss to fill time outside of work and sleep, the latent distractedness one of the reasons he’d ventured to Covent Garden in the first place, though his better sense told him to make a different choice. He did have other interests.

Sinclair and Luke were occupied with personal pursuits and seemed not to notice his lack of focus. Recently he’d obtained information Sin needed to resolve an important issue and likewise volunteered to assist Luke as he searched for his lost son, but as far as his own life’s goal was concerned, Cole remained at odds.

In regular routine, he followed the side alley leading to Seymour Street where he conveniently jumped the fence which bordered some upper’s flower garden. This access cut across the property on to Wigmore where he kept his apartments. He inwardly cringed whenever someone referred to his address, a bastard set up in a fine neighbourhood of snobbery, but he worked hard and strove for better things, aware investment in prime real estate proved smart business.

This evening the streets were noisier than usual and, as he approached the plot where he trespassed as habit, he noticed two servants arguing behind the house. What they debated he dared not examine too closely.

He harboured no worries of being caught trespassing, able to assume an assortment of identities to ensure he’d continue on his way. Survival had taught him a bevy of skills which required few articles of disguise. With imitation at the ready, he could play the offended aristocrat, bleary-eyed sot, or passion-dazed cod’s head just returned from a lover’s assignation. How easily he’d hoodwinked myriad peers, preying on their arrogance and impatience to create distance from him. With certainty, it was the single worthwhile skill he’d gained from an unscrupulous youth on the slum-riddled streets of the city’s underbelly.

Still, a note of disappointment accompanied the conclusion. With the servants outside he’d need to find an alternate route away from the property he’d meant to dissect, which was laden with abundant honeysuckle and lavender in full bloom, the fragrance of the shrubbery an immediate balm and particular favourite.

Anticipating his unexpected detour, he plucked a cluster of blooms that poked through the fence and placed it between his lips to chew on the stem. He shrugged away regret and sidled behind a thick stone wall which created a barrier to his left. Then he skimmed low to skirt the perimeter in search of a gate or fence to hurdle. He’d almost reached the corner when he overheard voices on the other side. Slowing his steps to remain undetected, he kept an ear to the conversation, noting the dulcet tones of a woman’s voice, cultured and proper quality. A man answered before he could consider it further.

Oh, but this gentleman was cunning. A promise of information in exchange for a kiss. Cole admired the gentry cove’s smooth efforts, surprised and pleased when the clever lady caught him in the trap and reversed the proposition.

Charing Cross? Is that what the man had mentioned? Cole knew the roadway and every corner of the surrounding area from his tragic youth. Little more than a street urchin, he’d roamed the connected alleys of nearby neighbourhoods, nabbing whatever odd tasks were offered, mucking stalls, catching vermin for the grocer or scraping soot from narrow chimneys, although the confined space of the firebox always caused his heart to pound. Two pence from a lazy stable hand, a shilling from a nob who needed a message delivered, and another earned for discarding innards for the fishmonger. The sum added to a bowl of broth by end of day. Life was easier then. A wistful frown curled his lips with the melancholic remembrance. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.

Without further hesitation, he eased closer to the wall, waited until silence insisted safety abound and then, with nothing more than a fleeting glance of the woman’s blonde hair and slim figure as she ventured indoors, he moved on.

‘Good morning, Gemma. What are your plans for the day?’

Gemma smiled in automatic greeting to her brother though inside she fought an instant spark of frustration. She understood the responsibility of care and protection for her and her sister rested upon his shoulders, but each day, week, month since their father’s sudden passing, Kent demanded a precise accounting of her daily schedule, making her personal endeavours near impossible to achieve. Nevertheless, as had become habit, she detailed her plans in respect of his request. ‘I thought to convince Rosalind to take some air in our open carriage with a ride through Hyde Park.’

‘Brilliant. She remains indoors too often.’ Genuine concern marked his reply.

‘She may not wish to speak right now, but society does not need to know about her prolonged reticence. Let them see her on the bench beside me and assume life continues as always. Our mourning period spent in the country stifled any wayward speculation.’ She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. ‘Besides, I hold hope someone will ignite an interest and cause her to respond from necessity or curiosity, an impossible circumstance if she remains locked away here at home.’ Perhaps she’d spoken too forthright, her imagery coloured by inner conflict. Her brother’s brows climbed high before he answered.

‘What if someone aligns with the cabriolet and wishes to converse? How will you explain your sister’s lack of communication?’

‘A sore throat or megrim? A prolonged malaise? If I’m chattering and supplying an explanation of her silence, how dare anyone persist?’ She took another sip, seeking comfort and reassurance in the hot brew. ‘I believe in my heart the right instigation will cause her to speak again. If only I knew what it was. I dare say I would go mad trapped inside my head with nothing but the thrum of my pulse for company, but as we discussed with each and every doctor, the matter cannot be forced. Rosalind maintains fine health otherwise. She may find comfort in no longer using her voice, broken from Father’s death, but how I wish I knew what troubled her to such extreme she chooses to remain quiet.’

‘There is no understanding it. Every physician asserts Rosalind’s silence is a subconscious choice and she will return to rights again, but nonetheless, when I look into her sorrowful face, I question their medical integrity as nothing more than quacks. What sane person chooses to become mute? I wonder if they simply appease me, afeared to inform me of a grave diagnosis that might shade them in disfavour. Meanwhile, it is difficult to sit idle and wait for her to return to the vociferous young girl who added amusement to each day.’ He rifled through a stack of correspondence before he spoke again. ‘Do not mistake my silence on the subject as dismissal. I am at a loss and cannot invest the time I should.’ He continued after the sentimental admittance, reassembled into the stern brother she knew well. ‘It seems I’m forever seeking solutions. Parliament’s most recent bills are a travesty.’ He unfolded another letter as was routine during breakfast and pierced her with a meaningful glare. ‘Return to Stratton House if Rosalind appears uncomfortable in any respect. I know you have her best interest in mind but there are times…’

‘Of course. I would never inflict more harm.’ Her words faded on a mutter, daunted by her brother’s chastisement. How he divided his attention between multiple subjects, when one seemed more important, was beyond her comprehension.

‘I don’t mean to sound harsh. Obey my wishes and do not cause difficulty. I wouldn’t want your best intentions to go awry by way of enthusiasm.’ He splayed a hand and indicated the pile of papers on the table. ‘Everywhere I look I find opposition. I’ll not have it in my household as well.’

‘I understand.’ But she didn’t. Not in truth. Everything had changed since Father’s death. She had lost not just her dear, kind father, but her sister, who chose a lonely silence and incommunicable coexistence. Meanwhile, her brother had assumed the title and since dedicated his time to the consuming demands of the House of Lords more than his own house. With their mother long ago buried, Rosalind was her closest confidante aside from her maid.

‘Is that all?’ Kent resumed his interest in the message left resting near his plate.

‘Perhaps after we return from the park, I’ll visit a new modiste outside Mayfair.’ She strove to inject a pleasant note.

‘Do you want for anything?’ He barely raised his eyes with the question.

‘No. Not at all, though I understand this shop creates the newest fashions and it bides well for Rosalind and I to present our best now that we’ve put away our mourning blacks.’ She took another sip of tea in an effort to keep her expression neutral.

‘Talk of fabric and frippery is best left to your maid.’ His steely gaze punctuated his dismissal. ‘Be sure to take Nan with you.’ Then, with split interest, he glanced to the letter in hand. ‘Another Poor Bill to contend? This proposed system will distort the free market.’

She wrinkled her nose, eschewing concerns of Parliament’s business for another reason entirely. Explaining a stop in Charing Cross to her maid would require some inventive storytelling. When her mother died nine years ago, Nan had stepped in to raise her. The line between servant and friend blurred over time and while the woman was not old enough to serve as mother, there were often instances when the maid assumed the role. Still, Gemma had achieved her goal with a modicum of honesty so she would not waste the unexpected boon.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose from the chair with energised purpose. ‘Let me inform Rosalind so she may make ready for the park.’

Mayhap it was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that jarred loose the tender memory and freed the stifled yearning for kindness, but whatever the cause, Cole woke the next afternoon with a desire to visit Charing Cross. There his makeshift mother lived in a stark flat where, over several past years, she’d housed and protected numerous lost boys, sharing what little she had and wanting nothing in return. As when she’d raised him, the only rules to abide were a strict sense of purpose and honesty in every form, most especially in regard to crime. She kept the lads fed and clothed, taught them the barest education and left each with an indelible understanding of gratitude and kindness to do better by others. It wasn’t until many years later that he understood the sacrifices she made in order to pay rent and purchase necessities.