Prologue
St. John’s Wood, London.
1801
Peeking her head out of one of the few backdoors of her aunt and uncle’s substantial home in St. John’s Wood, young Evelina Frampton took her chance, hiked up her skirts, and dashed across the lawn and into the woods.
This fraction of time, between her pianoforte tutor’s arrival and her French lessons, between her aunt’s daily naps and the nursemaid’s jaunts to town, was the only part of her day she could see him—Ash. The mysterious, mute boy who lived in the woods.
Mud splattered on her petticoat as she ran over the wet lawn, but she did not stop; she had to see him. Dashing in further, ducking into the forest, ignoring the rough twigs, roots, and rocks under her thin kid soles, she neared the tall oak she had climbed many times.
“Oh, Ash,” she murmured, peering through the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “I hope you will come along this eve.”
Folding her skirts, Ellie sat against the rough bark of a tree, pulling up the tall grass beside her and braiding them into a thick strand to pass the time. Her eyes occasionally darted up to look for Ash.
Ash was not his real name, but rather a moniker for she did not know his true name. She named him Ash for the color of his hair, a strange pale blond that middled the bright flaxen hair many people had, and the mysterious platinum shade some women were naturally gifted with.
The almost imperceivable crunch of twigs under shoes had Ellie looking up to find the mute boy arriving in the distance; his worn boots were tucked into his faded trousers, while his shirt was untucked and loosened at the collar. His pale hair was a beacon that drew her eyes in the low light.
Her heart leaped. “You came!”
He nodded, his lips taking on the slightest curve before he gently lowered to sit beside her. When he drew his knees up, she noticed a faded bruise on his cheek.
“Oh, Ash,” she sighed sympathetically, getting to her knees and reaching out to touch his bruised skin—but wavering before her fingertips landed. “Are you hurt again?”
Nodding, Ash leaned his face into her touch, and she grazed the sallow skin. Months ago, when she had first met him, he had looked at her as if she were a wild doe, unwilling to come near her.
In the days—and months— that followed, he’d be willing to come to her side, especially when she bemoaned the many lessons she was forced to endure every day.
“How did this happen?” she asked, pushing back his hair from his ear as the bruise had receded up to his temple.
He did not say a word, as per usual.
Ash wasn’t that much older than her—at her best estimate, she assumed he was ten-and-four, or possibly a year older, to her ten years.
“Are you in pain?” She tried her best not to press too hard on the bruised skin.
He shook his head.
“I have a balm at home that might fade the ugly bruise,” she murmured. “I can go and get it if you wa—”
Ash shook his head forcibly and fixed his fingers around her wrist—wordlessly telling her to stay put. The callouses on his palms and fingertips told her he worked to get by. Every lord’s son had hands as soft as suede.
For every one thing she knew of Ash, there were a dozen things she remained in the dark about.
Weeks ago, when she had carried a basket of food to share, he’d loved the plain oat cakes but hated the ones with currants. He chose the fresh fruits over the pudding and ate the meat pies with gusto. The little drams of spices and wine she’d stolen away had been accepted… only after she’d taken a sip.
“All right, all right, I’ll stay,” Ellie assured. “I still want to get you that balm, though.”
She leaned her head onto his shoulder, “I do wish I could see you more than these times we sneak out to see each other. Well, I sneak out, I do not know if you need to slip away from your folks. Er… I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”
Twisting her head, she asked, “Do you have folks? I have this feeling that you might be all alone. Are you all alone?”
He swallowed tightly, then nodded.
Pained, Ellie hugged him. “I am so sorry. I do wish there was a median of having overbearing guardians like my aunt and uncle, and you not having anyone. Every child should have that, shouldn’t they?”
His arm came up and wrapped around her shoulder, sparking butterflies into a storm under her breastbone. Ash scarcely showed emotion, and him hugging her made her blurt, “I think I love you.”
He pulled away, but only so far as to meet her eyes and search them. Before she lost her nerve, Ellie added, “I care for you a lot, Ash, and e-even if I don’t know your real name, I want us to get married when we are older. Wouldn’t—would you like that too?”
After a heart-pounding, almost maddening moment, Ash nodded, and relief made Ellie’s head light.
“I think—” She slumped to the ground again and looked around for something, anything to use and commemorate the moment, and her eyes drifted to the strands of grass she’d braided. Grabbing them, she fashioned them into rings. “I think we should get married, now.”
His brows shot up, and she went red. “Er… like a promise marriage, to, well, be married later on.”
Ash shook his head, his expression wry. Heat crept up her cheek as she got to her knees and held out the rings. “Take one.”
As he hesitantly accepted it in his palm, she added hers and covered his hands with hers. “I, Evelina Frampton, do promise to marry Ash when I am twenty years old. I promise to be his loving wife, and he promises to be my loving husband, and we will live happy and content for the rest of our lives.”
She took his hand and slid the ring onto his fourth finger, while after a moment, he did the same to her.
“There is—” she felt her face flame, “—is usually a kiss at this part.”
Ash’s head canted to the side, his lips curling into a smirk, and before she lost her nerve, Ellie leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“There,” she mumbled. “We are married… or promised to marry at least.”
A male shout suddenly cut through the trees.
“Evelina Rosalind Frampton! Where are you?”
Ellie’s head snapped to the left at the sound of her uncle, Patrick Langford’s, furious voice. Frightened at his tone, Ellie found herself frozen in place, unsure of what to do.
Should I run or stay right here?
Snapping to the left and right, she felt her heart plummet to her feet; her uncle would not take it lightly to know she had not only skipped her lessons, but to find her alone with a boy would surely push him into a rage. It went against all the propriety teachings she had been taught.
“Evelina!” Her uncle yelled once again.
Instead of pushing herself away from Ash, she pressed herself closer, seeking comfort and perhaps hiding away from the impending fallout. Ash’s arm wrapped around her as she heard twigs and leaves snapping under her uncle’s boots.
Ash made to stand and was taking her with him when her uncle trampled through the underbrush and roared, “Evelina! Are you out of your mind!”
She trembled and turned horrified eyes to Ash, but he did not move; he was as terrified as she was. Her uncle grabbed her right shoulder and dragged her away; in a panic, she reached with her left hand for Ash. He grabbed at her but only managed to come away with the leaf ring on her finger.
Patrick snarled. “Get away from her, you disgusting runt! Unhand her!” Her uncle hauled her away, bristling anger sparking in his eyes, “Get away from here, you cur. If I see you again, I will have you in prison.”
“No, Uncle,” Evelina tried to stop him. “Stop! Please—Ash-”
“And you,” he pulled her through the forest. “You are never to be out of my sight, or to see him again, you hear me!”
As he dragged her through a large copse of trees, the last glimpse Ellie had of Ash, was him clenching his hand over the makeshift ring.
***
Across town…
Pocketing his pay of a half crown and pennies, Dorian turned to the dark streets and headed back; the half-moon was a sickle above him in the dark sky.
He ran a hand through his dark, soot-covered hair and, with the broom flung over his shoulder, began trudging through the dark alleys of London, set on heading home.
A cold wind buffeted his back as he turned a corner, and he sensed them.
To their credit, the footpads were light on their feet, but Dorian was lighter and faster. When he was sure the robbers were set on him, he burst into a run, and using his detailed memory of the streets in Covent Garden, darted into an alley where it forced the men to attack him single file.
An ugly mug with a horrid scar down his face leered from the darkness. “We got ye, boy.”
Dorian held up both hands, one still holding the stick of the broom, “Are you going to kill me for three silvers?”
“It’s enough to buy a jug of blue ruin,” the first man replied while two more faces loomed over his shoulder.
He tugged a wicked, jagged knife from the band of his tattered trousers and brandished it. It glittered with malice. “Now, hand it over.”
Pausing, Dorian considered his reply—then decided not to reply at all. Quick as a snake, he shot out a hand, and grabbing the hand holding the knife, Dorian yanked and twisted the arm so far that the man’s elbow almost popped broken, and he fell to his knees screaming.
A movement behind him had him ducking under an overhand punch before spinning to face the next attack, and dropping quickly, swept the man’s legs out from under him.
Grabbing the discarded knife, Dorian wielded it to defend himself and inflict as little pain as possible, but when it was clear they would kill him, the need for survival spurred Dorian forward.
He jumped back when the second man swung a machete in a wide arc, and the jagged point caught the edge of Dorian’s thin coat. Pain lanced up his nerves and blood stained a long line down his arm, but he hardly felt it as the vital energy pulsing through his body blocked the pain.
The third man wavered and, gazing at his two accomplices, shook his head once, then twice, before turning tail and darting away.
Through the ringing in his ears, Dorian sucked in a breath and clutched at his arm, wincing.
A figure separated from the shadows.
A huge man, bearded and menacing, made a beckoning movement. “Ye’ll need stitches with that, lad.”
Paralyzed, Dorian snapped, “Who are you?”
“I go by… Sterling,” the man muttered. “And you are a strong one, aren’t ye? Any other lily-livered lump would have dropped his coins and run, but not you. Unlike the others, you are willfully daft. But… also courageous. You don’t last long in this world if you aren’t.”
Straightening, Dorian asked, “Last… in what?”
“The job I am about to offer you,” Sterling said darkly. “One that will change your life. See, boy, I sense something in you, something dark and scalding, rippling to break free. You fought those men without the faintest to save your own skin.”
“You are wrong,” Dorian growled, “I did it solely for that.”
“Oh, look at that,” Sterling laughed oddly. “You have a heart. You could have easily killed two of them, but you didn’t. All the more reason why I want to take you under my wing. Even with that foolish moral code, you would do better than the cold-hearted blackguards who litter these streets like rats.”
Dorian furrowed his brows. “What do you want from me?”
“Right now? Only to get you stitched up. But after that, I am giving you the chance to reap all they have stolen from you,” Sterling replied. “If you stand by me, you become a name they shall whisper of in darkness. You will survive, and one day, you will make them all pay.”
The offer felt too good to be true, but thinking of his father in a cot, barely surviving on a dram of laudanum, and only when Dorian could afford it, instead of the full care he should be getting, rankled him. Not to mention knowing his thieving uncle was out there flaunting stolen wealth.
Dorian promised inwardly to get justice for himself and his father.
He squared his shoulders. “When do I start?”
“Let’s get you stitched up and then we can talk,” Sterling murmured. “I’d imagine you’d want to take care of your old man too.”
Frowning, Dorian asked, “How do you know about that?”
“This is your first lesson, boy,” Sterling chuckled, “When you aim to be the lord of the streets, you’d best know everyone in them.”
***
The weak rays of dawn led Dorian down the overgrown lane and took him to a small cottage, seemingly abandoned, as its garden was overgrown and there were no signs of inhabitation. Some bushes had grown so mighty that their roots protruded into the path, so he stepped onto the stretch of lawn and walked as silently as a cat.
Pushing at the door, he stopped in the kitchen to rest the fruit down, then went to the back room and found his father still abed. The man, barely three-and-fifty, looked near death’s door.
The pale, peppery spots on his cheeks, his thinning hair, and deep lines down his face, all made the fearsome, imperious Duke of Wolfthorne a far cry from who he once was.
“Father,” Dorian said quietly as he stoked the fire. “Are you awake?”
No sign came from the older man, but his chest rose and fell evenly, telling Dorian that he was alive.
Lips pressed tight, he left the room and went to the kitchen to warm up the last of the stew on the fire pit. He did not want to leave his father before he ate something, but Dorian needed to work that night.
For the last year since his father had lost his fortune and station—stolen, it was stolen, Dorian reminded himself—he’d hired himself out to be one of the sweep’s ‘apprentices’ as a climbing boy and had begun to live a nightmare of coal and dust.
He’d cleaned stinking, suffocating stacks from dusk until dawn; but studiously refused to do what the other sweeps did; leave windows cracked so they could crawl back in and snag candlesticks and silverware to pawn for half-pennies and a bob.
He’d proven himself to be fast and clever, letting his work speak for itself while standing aside as the other sweeps got hauled in by the constables.
“Father,” Dorian said, carrying the bowl back into the room. “Please, wake. I need to tell you something important.”
Weakly, Barnabas Beaumont forced his eyes open, “Who—who are you?”
Holding back a grimace, Dorian viciously hated the confusion and lunacy that plagued his father at times. He waited until the haze faded and recognition settled in his father’s eyes.
“Son,” Barnabas’s voice was weak. “I did not see you for a moment there.”
“I know, Father,” Dorian said, while coming closer to rest the bowl on the table. Reaching under the man’s back, he gently eased him up to sit on the headboard. “You need to eat something, but I need to tell you, I may have found a way out of here and for you to get the care you need.”
His father gaped at him. “What? How? What do you mean?”
“I found a patron who is going to take me under his wing,” Dorian said, knowing he could not divulge the truth that he would be working for a crime lord in the underworld. “He is going to pay and give you the medicine and proper food you need to heal.”
Barnabas accepted the bowl and tried to feed himself, but his fingers were not steady. It was painful watching the once powerful man struggle to do something so simple. Eventually, Dorian took over, spooned him the broth, helped him to the washroom, and then dressed him in travelling clothes.
“Who is this man?” His father croaked.
“The Viscount of Carrington,” Dorian replied, looking over his shoulder as two men stepped into the room. “These men are going to take you to a house with a nursemaid, and you’ll be cared for there.”
Barnabas’s eyes misted over as he turned to Dorian. “I am so sorry I failed you, my son. You should not have to go through such lengths for me.”
“You have not failed me, nor will you ever fail me,” Dorian said, as he stepped away from the men to help his father to the carriage. “Believe me, Papa, I will retrieve everything we have lost, and then some.”
I will survive. One day, I’ll be strong. Then I’ll make all who stole from us pay.
Chapter One
Ten Years Later
“Yesterday, I saw my cousin marry, and I thought to myself, well done, old girl, you are officially on the shelf,” Lady Victoria Rothwell, the daughter of Marquess Templeton, added a dash of milk to her tea and laughed.
“You’re only four-and-twenty!” Evelina gawked at her friend.
“In the ton, that makes me a spinster.” Victoria lifted a slender shoulder. “It matters not, my dear. I am quite comfortable being a spinster.”
“You could have married any of the last seasons,” Ellie giggled. “I am sure every bachelor was tripping over their heels to marry the Diamond of the First Water.”
Tucking a strand of her silver-blonde hair behind an ear of classically sculpted features, Victoria’s beauty drew lords from all over the continent and even overseas. Despite the early hour—and Victoria’s propensity to read through all hours of the night— no shadows rested under her eyes; her skin glowed with the health of the well-rested.
“They were.” Victoria rolled her dark blue eyes. “But some of them were just a touch too eager. They claim to love the arts, but when I ask the simplest question on the Bard, they splutter and stutter with excuses. How difficult is it truly to know the origin of the quote, ‘love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues, pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues’?”
Picking up a blackberry tart, Evelina shook her head, “I don’t think men read The Merry Wives of Windsor.”
“They should,” Victoria shrugged.
“Your brother doesn’t even know that, no matter how many operas you drag him to.”
“My brother is a troglodyte.”
Laughing, Ellie asked, “Where is dear Benedict this evening?”
“I have no idea,” Victoria shrugged. “My best guess is that he is at the horse track. But we are not here to talk about him. We’re here to talk about you. How are you on the husband-seeking front, Ellie?”
Dusting her finger off, Ellie sighed, “Aunt and Uncle have still banned me from courting for fear that the suitor will learn I have no dowry to offer his family. I am still Harriet’s companion at balls, and while she is allowed to court, I am not. I suppose that is the downside of being an orphan.”
Disheartened, Victoria flattened her lips. “Do they not believe you want to marry for love? How can you find your votre âme sœur if you are not allowed to court?”
“Aunt and Uncle had an arranged marriage,” Ellie replied. “They do not believe in soulmates or love. Their idea of a companionship is debating the merits of roasted pheasant over duck.”
“Sounds more delightful than these men and their blasé flirting,” Victoria replied. “It is still horrible, though. No one deserves to be trapped in a marriage of convenience.”
The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, warming the solarium. Fresh flowers sprouted from vases, and watered ivory silk flowed over the walls. Through the large double doors, the scent of azaleas, tulips, and the cultivated wildflowers in the garden below wafted in.
“It is,” Ellie replied, her face falling with sadness. “I do not want to be sold off or traded as if I am a fattened calf to the butcher, but until I get to the age of majority, I have little say in what I can do.”
“Oh yes, yes, about that,” Victoria’s eyes went bright with excitement. “Your twenty-first birthday is in a week and two days. What shall we do for such a wonderful milestone? Shall we throw a ball, or take a trip to Vauxhall, or—or use my father’s yacht to take a trip to America—”
“What?” Ellie’s mouth dropped. “No, goodness no, Victoria! We cannot do any of those.”
“Why not?” Victoria pouted. “I have always wanted to see New York.”
“I know, but I doubt we’ll see New York in a day,” Ellie replied. “Though I do thank you for the thought.”
Shaking her head, Victoria commiserated, “It is a pity that you shan’t know what it is to feel your heartbeat pound out of your chest, to feel your skin prickle with awareness and your head feel so light.”
“It sounds like you are describing a catalepsy,” Ellie’s lips twitched. “I would rather avoid that, thank you. But you are a bit mistaken, I did feel love once. It was calf-love, I suppose, but I did feel it.”
“Where did he go, by the by?” Victoria asked. “I know you said one day he was with you, and then when your uncle found you, he vanished.”
Shaking her head, Ellie corrected her, “We vanished. Uncle moved us from St John’s Wood to Grosvenor Square, and we never set foot in that part of the countryside again.
“When I asked around, covertly, of course, no one had ever heard of or seen the boy I’d described to them. Ash was gone, too. I think Uncle made sure he was sent away. No, no, I am sure Uncle sent him away.”
Shifting the plates on the table, her friend tutted. “Such a shame. Do you think you would have been the love of his life if you had been allowed to stay?”
“Maybe,” Evelina replied. “But then, how long do first loves last? There are times I do think it was best that we were separated, but at other times, I mourn the fact that the opportunity to find out was stolen from me.”
Reaching over the small round tea table, Victoria held Ellie’s hand tightly. “I, too, wish you had.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” Victoria’s lips pursed, “Back to the conundrum of what we shall do for your birthday. How does a trip to the pools of Bath sound?”
***
Stepping into the fore room of her uncle’s townhome, Evelina wanted nothing more than a hot cup of tea and to retire to her bed with the latest book from Temple of the Muses in hand.
“Miss,” Mr Radcliffe, the butler, bowed as she stepped into the room, “Your honored aunt and uncle requested to see you in the drawing room.”
Frowning, Evelina undid her coat. “Why?”
“I would not know, Miss,” he said candidly. “I am only told to make you aware that they need to see you as soon as you arrive. The only caveat I am told to give you is that, if you need to change your clothes, you may do so.”
A twist of frustration curled in her chest; what was this about?
It is probably something to do with Harriet, she grimaced inwardly. Maybe they want me to wear a plainer dress this season so the attention will be solely on her.
“Thank you, Radcliffe,” Evelina replied.
After inspecting her attire, an olive-green walking dress with minimal ornamentation and puff sleeves, she decided it was presentable enough for her difficult-to-please relatives, so she took off up the stairs—but it was only when Radcliffe twisted the handle to the drawing room, a dormant thought sparked in her mind.
Why did they specifically request I change clothes in the first place?
“Lord Carrington, Mr. and Mrs. Langford, Miss Frampton has arrived,” Radcliffe bowed.
Lord Carrington? Who in heavens is that?
Her uncle stood, as did the other gentleman, an older gentleman, perhaps a few years under her uncle’s forty-eight years. Instantly, she recoiled.
It wasn’t only Lord Carrington’s bleached wheat shade of hair, or his cutting icy blue eyes, nor was it the cruel, arrogant curve of his mouth that reminded her of a woodcut of a Greek Demogorgon.
His ink-black jacket and grey trousers were exquisitely tailored, and above his silver-grey waistcoat, his cravat held a perfect knot. He looked like a proper gentleman, but there was something… something serpentine about him.
She curtsied and angled her head low. “My lord.”
Carrington looked to her uncle, “She is as pretty as you said she was.”
Pardon?
The mysterious gentleman resumed his seat, but she didn’t miss the glance he sent her way or the smirk on his face.
What business does he have with our family?
Her uncle beamed, and he motioned for her to sit. She complied with a soft, nervous smile.
“Evelina, dear,” her uncle Patrick began, “I have arranged a marriage for you to Lord Carrington.” He paused, clearing his throat, almost as if expecting her to fall over and kiss his feet in thanks. “The arrangements have already been made, and the date is set for a week and a day from now. It is my hope that you will find happiness with this union.”
Evelina’s jaw fell slack. Her skin burned with humiliation.
“B-but Uncle. Marry? I—I have never met his lordship…” she tried for a smile. But behind her calm façade, Ellie’s breath came in short, shallow gasps, and her fingers gripped her skirts. Her gaze flitted to the gentleman before her, before returning to her uncle.
“Now, I am certain you have questions, dear, but it is already decided. I shall answer everything else in time. Your Aunt and I have already considered this matter significantly, and have decided a stable, arranged marriage is far more favorable to an ill-fated love match,” her uncle said matter-of-factly.
“But uncle—” her eyes flew to her aunt, who sat placidly beside the men. “I am going to have my birthday the very next day.”
“Your… aunt and I would rather you marry before you turn one-and-twenty,” Patrick said diffidently. “I know you admire your friend who is a self-proclaimed Original, and who is swanning to an inglorious life on the shelf, but we do not want that for you. It comes with an underlying sheen of shame that follows you everywhere.”
She could barely control her erratic breathing as she was hit with swift and piercing statements, one after the other.
How can you say it is ill-fated if you have never experienced a love match?
The words bubbled up her throat, but she could not utter a breath of them as years of ingrained propriety halted them from leaving her lips.
The thin strain of hope she had to somehow find love in the ton—or even outside of it—by attending balls, walking into a teahouse, or strolling through Hyde Park, shattered with finality.
“Mr. Langford,” Lord Carrington began, “Would you and your wife permit me to have a moment alone with Miss Evelina? Leave a maid here in your stead.”
Her uncle shared a look with his wife; the middle-aged, plump woman with braided gray hair pursed her lips before she nodded and pressed her hand to the large opal brooch pinned to her fichu. “I suppose we can allow that.”
While her uncle stayed put, her aunt left to find a maid, and soon enough, a maid, clad in her dark grey uniform, curtsied. “My lord, and Miss Evelina, my name is Tess. I am honored to sit in with you today.”
“Sit at the back and remain quiet,” Sterling ordered her.
With that, Ellie’s uncle and aunt walked out of the drawing room, leaving the two of them alone once more. A heavy silence hung in the air between them before Sterling eventually spoke.
“I know you must be stunned by this revelation, but dear, marriages of the ton are not for love, they are for upward mobility,” he began.
“My family is gentry,” she corrected him. “And you must know that I am an orphan. The only upward mobility here is you pulling my family into the ton by our marriage. Marrying into the gentry. Why?”
He crossed his legs, “My father fell in love with my mother before I was born, but that affection soon turned to hate. They fought daily, their arguments often turning violent. My mother was a young woman of rank and fortune, which made her too headstrong for her own good. I would prefer not to have a repeat of that.”
Evelina swallowed. “Why have you not married earlier? You seem to be a gentleman of wealth, in your… middle years, why haven’t you already taken a wife?”
“I was too busy building my fortune,” he waved a cavalier hand. “When I was younger, I was expected to marry a young lady of rank, fortune, with respectable connections, but I decided to focus on something more important. Now that I am older, it has become a necessity rather than a choice.”
He does not want a wife; he wants an ornament on his arm.
“What sort of wife do you desire?” she asked.
“I was going to say conventional. But you are anything but, aren’t you?” He folded his arms. “I do apologize for this sudden change, but I aim to make it up to you. You will have a generous monthly allowance, enough to purchase all the jewels, French bonbons, books, or furs a lady could want. Even a phaeton, if you would like. A yacht, perhaps.”
Her brow lowered. “I don’t want those things.”
His tone was light. “You’ll have whatever you desire to impress your friends, a summer home on the coast, or yearly trips to America. In trade, I’ll use my social cache to bring your relatives into the le bon ton, polish them up and present them to proper society.”
“How do you do that?” her words blurted themselves out.
“Do what?” His left brow lifted.
“Be so sincerely insincere.”
He threw his head back and laughed, but the humored tone did nothing to settle her frizzing nerves.
“It is a gift of mine—you can say it’s instinctive,” Carrington replied, his lips twitching. “You’ll catch on quickly.”
Ellie felt sickened. She had been traded to afford her family a better life. Was this the reason her aunt had insisted on all those lessons? To use her as a tool to curry favor with the ton. After all, she was an orphan living off their good graces.
Still—to rob me of the chance to find love is beyond cruel.
“All these gifts… in exchange for what?” Evelina asked carefully.
Lord Carrington leaned in, and his smirk sent cold shivers down her spine. “You’ll see.”
“Does my uncle owe you money?” She asked.
“No.”
“Are you in a position to ruin his business?”
“I am, but no, it is not that.”
“I will not accept this marriage then,” she said flatly.
His eyes glinted with ominous cruelty, and his words echoed the same sentiment. “You may decline, but your uncle will simply find someone else to claim your hand, someone who is not as lenient or allowing as I am, if you indeed believe marriage to me is that unpleasant a prospect.”
“What—or who is worse than an ostentatious rake?” she asked directly.
His eyes trailed over her with a slow passage that made Ellie want to scrub her body with a horse brush and lye. “You do not want to know. Now, you would do best not to displease your relatives.” He turned to the maid. “Go and fetch the uncle.”
Ellie felt her throat tighten as her relatives reentered the room; she could feel her aunt’s expectant look piercing into the side of her neck. Carrington stood, his smile now charming and sincere.
“Miss Evelina and I have come to an accord,” he began. “The marriage will go forward in a week and a day.”
Chapter Two
Resting his arms on the copper-plated railing, Dorian gazed down at his prestigious gambling club, The Labyrinth, with warm pride brimming in his chest. This was what he’d built, this was what he worked toward for ten years—and it was only the beginning.
Young men dressed in black and white elegant evening wear shuffled, flicked, and cut cards with professional flair while the clatters of die echoed as they rolled on the tables. More young men weaved through the crowd with flutes of champagne on their trays.
Dorian’s gaze shifted to the other part of the floor where women and men gambled together. The chandelier light sparkled over jewels glimmering over women’s ears and necks as they hung on their husband’s arms, sipping top-rate champagne.
“Your Grace,” his valet, Roderick Lloyd, bowed while holding Dorian’s jacket and a folio, “Your carriage is ready.”
“Thank you, Lloyd.” Dorian stepped away and accepted the jacket.
I am sure my comments will make smoke billow from Sterling’s ears.
***
“You are doing what?” Sterling asked, his ice blue eyes narrowed with displeasure.
“I said that—”
Sterling slammed his fist on the table, barely masked fury reeking from his pores. “I know what you’ve said, but why now!”
Sitting back in his seat, Dorian finished his words slowly. “I am selling my shares of The Crown.”
“My club,” Sterling said stiffly.
“Yes.”
Your failing club. I do not want to go down with your sinking ship. Not to mention, I’ve just uncovered the missing connection between you and my dastardly uncle. You should be glad I haven’t ripped your head from your shoulders already, old boy.
Over the years, bad blood had started to simmer between Dorian and Sterling. Three years ago, Dorian had outbid Sterling on gaining the last shares for a profitable shipping line that sailed from the East, and Sterling had never let him forget it.
If Dorian were to be honest, the rift had started long before the shares business; it had begun when he’d been twenty years old, after years of working as Sterling’s running boy and spy; as he got older, he’d become an extortionist with a dash of bribery thrown in.
It was at that age he’d broken off from being Sterling’s underling and founded his first bar. It had gone on well; Sterling had no issue with him running a simple ‘blue-ruin’ joint. It was when the club, The Labyrinth, had sprung to life—and outdone Sterling’s club—that the rivalry went into full force.
Lips tight, Sterling pressed, “Now, right after the robbery.”
“I did advise you to change your routes,” Dorian replied. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“Forgive me if the timing seems too… coincidental,” Sterling muttered through gritted teeth. “Half my stock of liquor—”
Watered-down liquor that you serve after the men are drunk.
“—was stolen five days ago, and now you come here seeking my blessing to cut ties. With me,” Sterling’s tone was flat. “The man who made you.”
“You never fail to throw that in my face,” Dorian said calmly, while inside, he seethed. “How are you the same man who said he respected a self-made man, but always endeavors to keep such a man under his thumb?
“Anyhow, this has nothing to do with you being my mentor, this is purely business. Your club is failing, no matter how many discounts you offer and put on fighter nights, your members are leaving by the dozens. I am not in the mood to continue hemorrhaging money, so yes, I am pulling away. It is simply prudent business.”
Besides, now that I know what you truly are and how you managed to destroy my family, I will finally have my justice.
“I am not pulling away entirely, just the club,” Dorian assuaged. “For all our other ventures, I am still a participant.”
Especially since I need to get into the secret club the three of you have built away from me. One of you, or all three of you, know where my thieving uncle is, and I will get it out of you one way or another.
“Are you two starting the fun without us?” came a drawling, pompous voice.
Dorian craned his head to the doorway as the final two members of the club joined the group. Nathan Wellington, Marquess of Salem, and Drake Holt, the Viscount of Portsmouth, strode into the room. Both men, looking as they had just rolled out of separate courtesans’ beds, since Dorian knew Nathan favored redheads and Drake only patronized plump dames.
“Thank you all for coming,” Dorian said. “I do not want to beat around the bush. I am selling my shares to the Crown, and either of you is welcome to bid before I take this to the public.”
The two men took their seats, and a quick inspection around the table did not reveal any surprised twitches or confusions; then again, he didn’t expect any. These men dealt with quick changes daily. Even without looking at Sterling, Dorian could feel the man’s bristling impatience.
Drake and Nathan shared a look before Drake let out a long grunt, reached into his inner pocket, and plucked out a fifty-pound note, then handed it to Nathan. “You were right.”
Smirking, Nathan pocketed the money, “Two days before I thought he’d announce it too.”
“Wait—” Dorian glanced between the two. “You two took bets on my removing myself from the club?”
“I suspected,” Nathan shrugged. “We know you are one to weather the storm, Beaumont, but when the anchor is slipping and the sails are ripped, you cut ties.”
Lifting the glass of brandy in a mock salute, Dorian laughed, “Why, thank you for your vote of confidence.”
Sterling’s eyes latched on the other two. “What about you two? Are you ready to jump ship as well and abandon your strongman?”
“Give it a rest, Carrington,” Drake sighed while pouring a scotch. “You sound histrionic. No, we’re not parting ways, and neither is Beaumont. He is simply looking out for his best interests, as we all do.”
Sterling muttered, “Capital. What good news on the eve of my wedding.”
Dorian’s head snapped forward. “What? You are getting married?” Since when are you releasing your vice grip on eternal bachelorhood?”
“Consider it a loosening and not a full release,” Sterling said. “I am getting older, and I do not need a wife. It is more for rite of passage than me turning into any sanctimonious, monogamous codswallop.”
“Are you sure?” Nathan asked. “A wave of gents, all of them solid rakehells, have been getting married lately. It’s like a disease and it’s spreading.”
“Not for me,” Dorian shuddered.
“I wouldn’t worry for your health, old chap,” Drake grinned at Dorian. “You are impervious to viruses.”
“Do we get to know the name of this lucky lady?” Nathan asked.
“She’s a Miss, not yet a lady,” Sterling grunted before throwing back his drink. “A real proper one, all buttoned up and the like. I cannot wait for my whores to turn her into a doxy. There is no fun in bedding a gently-bred virgin, I tell you. Her name is Evelina Frampton, by the by, and we’re to wed at St. James’ tomorrow morning at ten.”
Dorian called for his dinner, specifying quail in truffle sauce and roasted garden vegetables with a glass of wine. “And how old is this Miss?” he asked.
“Twenty,” Sterling grunted. “She turns one-and-twenty the day after. Her folks are selling her off for her cousin’s introduction to the ton.”
Cocking a brow, Nathan asked, “And what do you stand to gain from this arrangement? You are not one to give without expecting something in return.”
Sterling cocked a brow. “Why not? I can be philanthropic on occasions.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Dorian snorted as his plate was set before him. “Now, what shall we do about the shares I am selling off. Any takers?”
***
Seated in the waiting room of St. James’ Cathedral, Ellie gripped the edge of her chair, swallowing over the bile constantly surging up her throat.
She felt trapped, and wondered why she had not vociferously told her aunt and uncle she would not be marrying this Sterling fop. The man clearly wanted nothing from her than to prop her into a house like he would do with a clock on the shelf.
“Ellie?” Harriet, her cousin, stuck her head around the door. “May we come in? It is Victoria and me.”
“Of course,” she replied, finally sucking in a stable breath. “You are always welcome.”
At ten-and-eight, Harriet was a petite female. Her thick, glossy plaits of chestnut hair were piled up on her head and stuck through with pins. Her dress, a soft dove grey gown with long sleeves, proper for a wedding, flared out from under her bosom. Victoria was stunning as always, in a peach peignoir with a matching shawl.
Two steps in, Harriet caught onto Ellie’s harried state. “Are you well, Ellie? You look grey and ill.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I am not. I don’t want this marriage, cousin. I don’t want this man. I already know he is not going to be faithful to me, nor will he ever give me the love that I want from a marriage and a real husband. I fear— I fear everything when it comes to him.”
The words had punched themselves out from her chest, and as soon as the deluge was out, the turmoil in her heart eased a little.
“Dear god,” Victoria muttered.
Distressed, Harriet reached out and held Ellie’s clammy hand. Face falling in sorrow, she said, “Have you told mother or father? Surely they will not force you to marry someone you are actively fearful about.”
“They will,” Ellie shook her head. “They will because this is the only way they could have you marry into the aristocracy. You know that. Especially after last year and the disappointment of your debut season. No one gave us a second look when they realized you were gentry, and this is the only way for you to have the happy life you deserve.”
Her cousin’s face twisted with dismay and pure horror. “But not at the expense of your life! No, Ellie, no. I’ll go and talk to mother and father and get them to put this off. I will not let you go on with this.”
“Harriet, dear—”
“Do not try and stop me.” Harriet surged from her seat and rushed out the door.
Taking her place, Victoria added, “This is not right, Ellie. You cannot do this. Is it not enough that your parents were taken from you before you were ready? And now to be married off to a man who will not value you, through no fault of your own?”
“But—” Ellie swallowed, “I am here. And that is my fault, because I’d worked myself up to run away last night, yet was too cowardly to do so…” she sighed. “Though now that I am here, I want to do it more than ever.”
“Then do it!” Victoria encouraged her. “If you want, I can find a way to hide you—”
“No,” Ellie shook her head. “You are the first place they would check. I—I would need to go somewhere else.”
Rummaging in her reticule, Victoria drew a purse thick with coins and paper notes; she stuffed it into Ellie’s hand before adding, “I will go and find your relatives and stall them as long as I can. Your groom is not here yet, you need to go. Now.”
Looking at the purse, Ellie shook her head. “I cannot possibly take this.”
“You can.” Victoria made for the door. “And you will. Now go!” Her friend bolted from the room with purpose.
Emboldened but nervous, Ellie stuck the coins into the pocket of the coat she had worn to the church and slid it on. As she turned to the door, a door slid open—behind her. She spun on her heel as a man strode into the room, his form covered by a thick cloak and his eyes shielded by a mask.
“Pardon—” she gasped. “Who are you? W-what are you doing here!”
He had her up against the wall in seconds, the dark glass of the man’s crow mask shielded her attacker’s eyes. “I am getting you out of here. You will not marry that beast of a man.”
She glared while her breath came in short bursts, “That is for me to decide, not you. Who are you! Get your hands off me you—you bounder!”
The man yanked a cloth from his pocket and pressed it to her nose. “We can debate the merits of that sentiment later. For now, we need to go.”
Ellie made the mistake of taking a large breath to scream—but the chemical hit her lungs and brain in seconds. The world went hazy around her, and she slumped—before she knew it, all was black.
Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 28th of May
