Prologue
Early Spring London 1818
Raithe, the Baron of Balstead, watched as his last two victims walked through the door. Good. They were all here.
He’d carefully chosen this cast of characters, his soon-to-be house guests. He needed them for a very particular purpose, though he had no intention of telling them what that purpose was.
This was a situation where it was best to lie.
He found many situations were that way. Not all of them, of course. But here, at his gentlemen’s club, where drinking and gambling were the primary activities, it was all about the bluff. Just to his right sat three friends. Lord Dashlane, Lord Crestwood and Lord Craven. They were his first three potential…guests.
Craven was one of the few men in England that actually frightened him a bit. Quiet and sullen, he was also tall and well-muscled. He looked quick as a snake and equally as deadly. Then there was Dashlane, Blond with a flashing smile, he was a charmer to be sure. Crestwood was dark-haired and handsome. All three liked their fair share of women and liquor but he’d seen them defend a group of harlots that another band of ruffians had attempted to rob and that put these gents on his list.
“Are you going to tell us what this is about?” Dashlane asked, bringing his whisky to his lips.
“In a minute,” he answered, holding up a finger. A wide range of patrons/guests crowded the club tonight, seats limited, which worked for him. His last two players had entered the club but hadn’t picked him out the crowd yet.
The Duke of Rathmore made his way through the mash of people and stopped directly in front of Raithe. Rathmore turned to his cousin and best friend, Lord Hartwell. “Don’t you love the smell of leather, cigars, and good whisky?”
Hartwell rolled his eyes. “I prefer brandy and thank goodness we missed the speaker,” he quietly announced as he brushed back his rich brown hair. “I’ve no appetite for politics today.”
Rathmore raised his brow. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Charlie.” Hartwell grimaced, his mouth tightening.
Raithe’s insides tightened. Charlie was short for Charlotte, Lady Charlotte Rainsville. She was Rathmore’s cousin and Hartwell’s sister. As vivacious as she was beautiful, she’d come out the season before. Fearless and outspoken, many had said she should have been born a man.
Not that her strong personality stopped her from garnering male attention. In fact, Charlie had been the premiere debutante last season with droves of men following her about but she’d yet to choose a husband. Raithe had not been one of those men. He stayed away from respectable girls as a general rule and Charlie in particular. Something about her beauty made her difficult to even look at. A man might lose his head and he couldn’t afford to do that now.
“Are you worried for the upcoming season? I know you were beating men off with sticks and clubs.” Rathmore chuckled.
Hartwell’s grimace turned into a full-on spasm. “Worried doesn’t begin to cover how I feel. And sticks and clubs were the least of the needed weapons. I had two incidents that involved a sword and one that required a pistol.”
Chase clapped his cousin on the back. “I’ll help you.”
Hartwell gave him a light shove. “You said that last year too. But we both know you’re too busy to help me keep Charlie out of trouble.”
“Busy doing what?” Raithe asked, a light grin playing at his lips. He knew full well what sorts of illicit pastimes the duke engaged in that kept him occupied.
Both men turned to look at him. Hartwell appeared leery while Rathmore crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I didn’t sneak.” His grin broadened. “I’ve been sitting here the entire time. Isn’t that right, Dashlane?”
“Are they who we’re waiting for? Can we get on with it then?” Dashlane cracked his knuckles. “I’ve got a lovely brunette waiting for my attention.”
Rathmore frowned at the other fellow. “Must you be so indiscrete about your indiscretions?”
Crestwood quirked a brow. “How else should a man be? We are young, single, titled. Seems perfect to me.”
“It’s tawdry. It’s one thing to participate in such behavior but another to speak so openly about it.”
Rathmore frowned and Raithe realized he should get this conversation moving before the men began to squabble. That could come later. “Gentlemen,” he started, clearing his throat. “I’m having a party at the end of next week. You are the premier guests on the list.”
Crestwood slapped the table, his attitude completely changing. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Craven continued to grimace; his face a complete mask. “What sort of party?”
“The sort men of your kind would like.” He winked. Raithe had a particular sort of reputation for having parties filled with women and liquor. That wasn’t what this was going to be and so he wouldn’t outwardly promise such delights. It would give him plausible deniability later.
Rathmore dropped his arms to his sides. “Next week? I couldn’t possibly.”
Raithe tried not to frown. The duke, once a notorious rake, had hardly been seen at the gaming hells or at parties of ill repute. Coupled with his comments to Crestwood, that made him the most important candidate of them all.
Hartwell stepped forward. “We’re headed to the coast to check in on some of our properties.”
Excellent. He tightened his grip around his glass. “Then you’ll be close to my home. Surely, you can spend a few days with us.”
Hartwell shook his head. “My sister will be travelling with me. I seriously doubt she is suited to one of your parties.”
Raithe didn’t respond. This gathering would be perfectly appropriate for such a lady but he wasn’t about to tell them all of that. Besides, Charlie was the last woman he wanted in his house, under his roof, near his bed. “That doesn’t mean Rathmore can’t attend. For a few days at least.” He leaned forward. “Tell me you’re not craving something different.”
He saw the flicker of indecision in the other man’s eyes.
Victory roared in his blood.
“Count me in,” Crestwood crowed. “What about you, Dashlane?”
Dashlane took a sip of his drink. “Why not? I could use a change of pace. Craven?”
The third man frowned. “I suppose.”
Raithe didn’t care if Craven attended or not. In fact, he’d prefer he didn’t but the three were often together making Craven a necessary evil. “Rathmore?”
“I’ll think on it,” Rathmore shrugged, staring at the far wall.
“I’ll attend,” another voice called from the corner. Raithe turned, his jaw clenching when he’d seen who spoke. His Grace, the Duke of Danesbury sat, partially obscured by shadow. The man was rarely seen out, his face having been scarred on one side from some accident or another. Raithe’s eyes widened to see the man here on such a busy night. “Your Grace?” he asked. Strictly speaking the man was not invited but as a duke, he’d be difficult to refuse.
“I’ve heard of your parties, Balstead. I’ll come if you’ll have me.”