Chapter 1

Chapter One

A h, The Raven’s Den. Ash leaned contentedly over the balcony wall, looking down onto the busy gaming floor. His favorite sounds filtered up from below; glasses clinking, cards shuffling, men laughing, dice being thrown. All sounds that meant he was making money. He couldn’t be seen where he dwelt in the darkness, but could survey everyone and everything in his domain, just the way he liked it.

It would be time to close soon, so leaning heavily on his raven topped cane, he made his way toward the stairs. He’d carried the cane since the day his father had died, a reminder of the monster he would become if he wasn’t careful. It hadn’t always had the raven on top, he’d added that around the time he opened this place. After having been shot in the leg a few weeks ago, it now served to support him physically, as well. The wound was bloody painful as he traversed the stairs. If he had been watching the gaming floor like he was supposed to rather than stewing over estate business, it never would have happened.

He pushed the heavy curtains open with his cane and ambled onto the gaming floor, breathing in the ever-present scent of liquor and tobacco.

Patrick strode across the floor toward him, his lips pressed in a disapproving line. “Giles and I are both here tonight, Ash, and perfectly capable of closing up. You didn’t need to come down.”

Ash waved Patrick away. “Stop coddling me,” he growled. “Go up and see the ladies off for the night.”

With a shake of his head, Patrick strode through the back curtain to do as he’d asked.

“Gentlemen!” Ash called out over the room of raucous men. “Say goodnight to the Lady Ravens!” He swept his cane through the air, gesturing for the ladies to make their nightly parade through the tables. Dressed in black, formfitting gowns that highlighted their curves and put their decolletage on full display, the masked ladies danced between the tables, waving their oversized, black feathered fans. The men whistled their appreciation as the ladies twirled and swayed their way to the back of the club where they disappeared, one by one, through the velvet curtains, each one blowing a kiss before she went. In his club, the ladies were there to be looked at, but never touched. The women were under his protection, and if any man so much as laid a finger on one of them, Ash would make sure the offending body part was broken before the bastard was thrown out.

“It’s your last chance to win, gentlemen, so bet big. One final deal, spin, or roll. Good luck!” Cheers and clapping rose up as they all placed their wagers.

When the last of the cash and chips had been counted and locked up tight, Ash let out a long sigh. His leg ached and he needed a drink.

“Goodnight, you two,” he said to Patrick and Giles. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

They let themselves out through the backdoor. Ash’s private quarters were attached to the club. A long hallway, with locked doors at both ends, crossed over the top of the alleyway behind the club and connected directly to Raven House. The Lady Ravens resided on the ground level of the building, and his rooms were on the upper floor. He filled a glass with brandy and sat at his piano, resting his cane carefully on top. The large, black instrument was the only piece of furniture in a wide open room. Its elegant curves were all Ash required.

Taking a long draw on the amber liquid, he tipped his head to each side, stretching the tense muscles of his neck. He placed the half empty glass on the coaster that lived on top of his piano and began to play. His signet ring winked in the lamplight as his fingers moved over the cool, ivory keys. Slowly, his eyes slid closed. Nothing eased his soul like his piano. It always had, even in his worst moments. He’d never been one to play works written by the greats. Instead, he allowed his heart to lead the way, unleashing the notes from within him. Sometimes grandiose, sometimes upbeat, sometimes passionate. Tonight… melancholy, with a little uncertainty and agitation thrown in for good measure. And fear, if he was honest.

He didn’t want to face what he knew was coming, his inevitable return to his estate, Woodburn Hall, and the terrors from his past which would undoubtedly haunt him upon his arrival. He hadn’t been back since his father’s funeral seventeen years ago. Once his monster of a sire was dead, he’d fled, planning to never look back. But now someone was causing trouble. At the very least, his estate manager was stealing from him. He needed to put a stop to whatever was happening, and unfortunately that meant returning to his estate, whether he wanted to or not.

He slammed his hands down on the keys in an explosion of dissonant notes. He blew out a breath to calm himself. It wasn’t the piano’s fault. Carefully, he lowered the wood cover and reached for his glass, draining the remaining liquid down his throat.

The door to his quarters opened and his valet entered with a raised brow. He’d probably heard Ash’s outburst from the stairwell.

“Is everything ready for us to leave in the morning, Fogg?”

He nodded solemnly. “Are you sure you don’t want Patrick or Michael to go with you?”

Ash shook his head. “I need them here to take care of the club and everything else. It’s not as if there will be any real danger. I just need to see to my estate for a bit.”

“It’s not the physical danger I’m worried about, Ash. You’ll have me with you, after all.”

“I don’t really know who or what I will become in that place, especially with the plan we’ve decided on, and if they are worried about me, they’ll intervene and get in the way. Have you forgotten they forced ether over my face and injected me with morphine after I was shot?”

“Yes, well, I would have helped them, if I had been here. You were being a stubborn fool.”

“Perhaps I was, and I may be now, as well. But they’re not coming. If things change and I need them, I can send a telegram and I have no doubt they’ll be on the very next train.”

He rubbed his aching leg before pushing himself to his feet. He needed sleep. Unfortunately, this was not one of those things that would be better in the morning.

* * *

Gwen stared across the room into her husband’s angry eyes. She’d only meant to slip into his study long enough to grab some stationery, but then she’d seen the letters. Letters to her husband, from a woman who seemed to think she was his wife.

“What are you doing in my study, Gwendolyn?” He folded his arms sternly across his chest and leaned against the doorway, blocking her only escape.

“I’m sorry, Greg. I was just looking for some?—”

With the merest raise of an eyebrow he ordered her silence. Gwen swallowed as fear churned in her stomach.

“You know you’re not allowed in my study, unless you’ve been invited.” His calm tone didn’t fool her. She was going to pay dearly for her curiosity. How had this happened? He had been so sweet to her right up until the day of their wedding, but then he’d suddenly changed, as if he’d been flipped to the opposite side of a coin. Lately, he’d grown to resent her. He seemed to revel in her pain and humiliation a little more each day.

With a nod toward the desk, he gave his instructions, but she didn’t want to comply. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He lifted the leather strap from where it hung on the side of his bookshelves.

She walked slowly around to the opposite side of the desk, her heart galloping inside her chest and her throat aching as she tried to hold back her tears. Her body trembled as she laid herself across the hard wooden surface.

Greg slowly approached, and her fear and anger clashed creating an explosion inside of her. As he bent to lift her skirts, her hand shot out and grabbed the candlestick beside her. She spun around, swinging wildly until it connected with a sickening thud. Greg crumpled to the floor.

Dropping the candlestick, she clapped both hands over her mouth. What had she done? Was he dead? Oh lord, she was going to hang. She instantly hated herself for the thought. What kind of horrible person would think that before anything else? A groan issued from his mouth, and for a moment, she praised God. But if he was alive, that meant he could beat her, and he surely would now. She grabbed the letters from the desk and stuffed them into her waistband. After one last glance down at Greg, she sprinted from the room. More groans floated out behind her, pushing her onward.

Gwen ran, as fast as her feet would carry her, to the stables. Thank heavens the groom hadn’t yet removed the saddle from Greg’s horse. She tugged the reins out of the man’s hands and launched herself onto the horse.

She urged the beast forward, but it was agitated by her abrupt appearance and stamped about briefly before obeying her. It had cost her precious seconds and Greg arrived just as she finally exited the stables. He grabbed onto her boot, nearly pulling her off of the horse. With a screech and a desperate tug, her foot came free of the boot and with the other one, she kicked the animal into motion.

“Fifty strokes await you when you return,” he called out as she galloped away from him.

“I’m not coming back!” she shouted over her shoulder.

He simply shook his head. “Where will you go?”

It was true. She had nowhere else to go, but the mere threat of fifty strokes set her backside ablaze. If she returned, she would indeed feel the sting of the leather strap. She leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged it faster and faster away from the house.