Chapter 1

London

1816

“I have heard the Lewisham chit is worth close to a quarter of a million pounds,” the Earl of Tynedale brayed in a voice loud enough to be heard over the din of the orchestra and three-hundred-and-fifty chattering voices.

“With a face like that I would need at least that much to do my duty to King and country,” a different voice retorted, causing the crowd of young bucks to guffaw.

“All cats are grey in the dark, Fulton.”

The men laughed uproariously at Tynedale’s comment.

Stand Fast Makepeace, Viscount Severn and heir to the Marquess of Grandon, tried to ignore the men’s blathering. He would have liked to ignore them entirely , but he couldn’t seem to evade the bloody pests.

Fast—as only his friends were allowed to call him—had scarcely been back in England a week when he’d attracted a group of admiring young fools who followed him like a clutch of besotted schoolgirls. The men—or boys, rather—were exhaustingly eager to learn the finer points of raking from a man who’d once been known as the King of the Rakes. It didn’t seem to matter to the brainless lads that Fast had absolutely no interest in repeating the exploits of his long-ago youth.

He firmly pushed his court of fawning, babbling admirers from his thoughts and stared out over the crowded dance floor. If a person had asked Fast a month ago if he would ever return to England, he would have laughed in their face. And he would have howled with disbelief if anyone had suggested that he would ever attend another ton function.

And yet here he was in a ballroom surrounded by the crème-de-la-crème of London society.

If you are so goddamned ashamed of me, I will leave England forever! Those were the last words Fast had flung at his grandfather—the Marquess of Grandon—the night he’d fled the family home. And Fast had adhered to his oath for more than a decade and a half. He had been twenty-three when he’d left behind the only home he’d ever known and plunged into the great unknown. In a few months he would be thirty-nine.

Looking back on his early years he could now accept that even if he’d not been guilty of all his grandfather’s accusations, he had been a wild, willful, and ungovernable youth.

As much as it pained him to admit it, he’d once been every bit as witless as the young Corinthians now trailing him about London. Fast had been up for all dares and wagers in his younger days, ready to engage in any foolishness no matter how dangerous.

Fast’s first years away from England had given him one shock after another. The sort of reckless behavior that he had engaged in with other young aristocrats would get a man killed at sea. He had grown up quickly and his life had been a constant struggle for survival. It had taken years before he had achieved a measure of success—and even a bit of contentment, if not actual happiness.

Fast would never have returned to England if not for the letter he’d received from his grandfather a few months ago. Claiming rapidly failing health, the old man had all but begged him to come home. Fast could hardly ignore his grandfather’s pleas, especially when the man had never issued anything except commands in all the years he’d known him.

So, he had hurried home, only to discover that the marquess had lied. He was not ill; he was alive and well, albeit very, very old.

As grateful as he’d been that his grandfather wasn’t at death’s door, Fast had been furious at the old man’s deception. But after his initial anger had faded, he’d felt almost grateful for his grandfather’s ruse. Surprisingly, coming home had made him realize how much he’d missed England. It also reminded him of his duty to his family.

The marquess had not apologized for accusing Fast of driving his twin brother—Perseverance, or Percy as his family and friends had always called him—to commit suicide all those years ago, but the old man made it clear by his actions that he regretted his angry words.

Slowly and tentatively Fast and the marquess had spent the last month getting reacquainted. The old man’s demands—which had seemed extreme when Fast was three-and-twenty—now appeared not only reasonable, but justifiable. The marquess wanted what he had always wanted: an heir to carry on the family name. He was desperate for Fast to settle down and marry.

At almost forty years of age Fast no longer rebelled against the prospect of marriage. Indeed, for the last few years he’d begun to not just consider a wife and children, but to yearn for both.

It was because of that yearning that Fast had, in a moment of weakness, capitulated to his grandfather’s plea that he marry.

But Fast had two requirements of his own.

First, he’d given his word to a friend that he would make one last run on his ship, the Vixen . The journey would take nine months. Only when that trip was over would he return to England and marry.

Second, while Fast accepted the value of family connections and good breeding, he refused to marry an aristocratic broodmare. He would choose a wife to suit himself, first and foremost. His wife’s social standing would be a secondary concern.

The marquess had unhappily accepted the first condition—he understood the sanctity of a gentleman’s word—but he had vigorously opposed the second.

The wily old man had already compiled a list of a dozen appropriate marital prospects and wanted Fast to promise that he would only select one of those women.

Arguments had ensued and tempers had flared. Finally, when matters were on the verge of becoming ugly, Fast had suggested tabling the discussion until he returned, at which time he promised to be guided by his grandfather’s wishes. He’d put heavy emphasis on the word guided.

Fast wasn’t looking forward to resuming that particular discussion, but he was looking forward to moving back to England and settling down, even though being home made him miss his long-dead twin fiercely. Indeed, the ache of the ancient wound was sharper than it had been in years. That is what his brother’s death had always felt like to Fast: a physical wound that had never completely healed. Clearly avoiding England hadn’t healed it; maybe taking up his family duties—responsibilities that Percy had taken very seriously when he had been the heir—might ease the pain.

Fast was pulled from his musing by the sight of the Earl of Avington—whose betrothal ball this was—waltzing with a striking dark-haired woman wearing an ill-fitting blue gown.

His jaw dropped when he recognized her. It was bloody Lorelei Fontenot! What in the name of God was she doing at this ball?

It wasn’t common knowledge, but Fast knew that Miss Fontenot was an especially sharp-quilled gossip columnist who wrote under the bi-line of Miss Emily . He’d seen the blasted woman at dozens of parties and assemblies, but never at a function as exclusive as Avington’s betrothal ball.

Fast suspected that Miss Emily wasn’t the only nom de plume she wrote under because she followed him all over London—to places that were decidedly not good ton.

Miss Fontenot was just one of the dozens of newspaper journalists who shadowed his every move, harassed the crew of the Vixen, and pestered the servants at his grandfather’s house on Berkeley Square. The only reason Fast knew her name was because of her gender. As far as he knew, she was the only female scandalmonger in London.

Why in the hell was Avington dancing with her? Did he know who she really was? Fast had always assumed the woman crashed ton events. Was it possible that she had actually been invited to Avington’s betrothal ball?

Forget about the blasted woman. You’ll be leaving in less than a week. Besides, the last thing you want to do tonight is cause a stir. There will be plenty written about you in the newspapers tomorrow without you adding to it.

That was true enough. Fast thrust Miss Fontenot from his thoughts; let somebody else deal with the pestilential newspaperwoman.

He turned his back on the dance floor only to be confronted by his youthful group of male admirers, all eagerly waiting to see what Fast might do next.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He couldn’t bear another minute of this idiocy. He’d made an appearance, given his best wishes to Avington—an old friend and the sole reason for coming to this blasted ball—and there really wasn’t any need for him to stay.

You could begin looking for your wife-to-be. Several of the women on your grandfather’s list are in this very room…

Fast ignored the snide suggestion. Instead, he headed toward the door.

He could not stay on his ship tonight—not with all the excitement planned for later—but he could go to Grandon House—his family home on Berkeley Square—and have an early evening for once.

***

Lorelei Fontenot watched in dismay as Viscount Severn strode toward the door. She’d been waiting for the perfect moment to approach him all night, and now he was leaving!

Lori shoved through the crowd, making liberal use of her elbows and earning more than a few irritated glances in the process. She nudged aside the clutch of young men immediately behind the viscount and tapped him on the shoulder.

He whirled around and stared down at her, his eyes a stunning frosty blue that appeared even lighter close up.

Lori had been spying on him for weeks and knew he was an enormous man, but she had never been so close to him before. Seeing him across a dance floor was one thing; standing six inches away from him was another experience entirely. Although his prominent cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and jutting blade of a nose were far too severe for him to ever be called classically handsome there was no denying that he was ruggedly masculine and attractive.

In addition to his massive person and striking features were his eyes, which were a startlingly pale blue. But it wasn’t just their icy color that seized a person’s attention, but the keen, predatory intelligence that blazed out of them.

Right now, those cold orbs exhibited a surprising recognition in their frigid depths.

“ You ,” he hissed, the single word pulsing with loathing and menace.

Lori tried to step back, but there were bodies all around her. She swallowed and licked her lips, which were sticking to her teeth. “Er, you know who I am?”

“How are you even at this ball?” An unpleasant smile spread across his lips. “I’ll wager our hostess would be surprised to learn she’s allowed an ink-stained wretch into her house.”

Three of the young lords who slavishly tailed after Viscount Severn snickered and murmured encouragement to their idol.

Lori’s face heated under his contemptuous gaze. “Perhaps we might go somewhere private to discuss this matter, my lord.”

He crossed his arms, the action drawing attention to his large biceps and massive chest. “I like it right here. Go ahead, Miss, er—” he broke off, his pale eyes narrowing. “I’m afraid I don’t know your real name as it doesn’t appear on the gossipy rubbish your employer—David Parker—publishes in that rag he calls a news paper.”

His words stung because Lori happened to agree with his assessment—or at least partly. The truth was that many of the stories David, her editor, chose to publish were rubbish. And Lori hated that she was reduced to haunting ton functions to collect society gossip to print under her Miss Emily byline. Unfortunately, she needed to earn a living, just like everyone else. Or at least everyone who wasn’t a wealthy peer like the man in front of her.

Lori opened her mouth to tell him as much, but he was not finished.

“Never mind—I don’t care what your real name is. I’ll just call you Miss Emily. ” He sneered. “Perhaps I should investigate you, Miss Emily? Do you just provide brainless drivel for Parker’s shameless rag or are you also his doxy?” His eyes glinted with malicious humor at her stunned gasp. “I’ll wager I could concoct a truly salacious tale about the two of you and sell it to one of Parker’s crack-brained competitors. How would you like that?”

Her foot twitched with the urge to kick him and Lori had to strenuously remind herself that she was a professional journalist. She crossed her arms, her hostile pose a mirror of his. “My name is Miss Fontenot, but I suspect you already know that. I want—”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you want!” he snarled. “You people hound me day and night wherever I go. My servants say that you have even rooted through my rubbish. And now you have the audacity to follow me to the betrothal ball of one of my friends to trawl for salacious gossip?”

People had begun to gather around them—not just Severn’s cadre of young bucks—and were watching their exchange with wide-eyed interest.

“Please, my lord. Can we not step outside?” She glanced meaningfully at their rapidly growing audience.

The nostrils of Severn’s fine, high-bridged nose flared, as if Lori was the rankest of vermin. “You must be off your chump if you think I will tell you anything that you can twist and contort and then print in Parker’s slimy rag.”

The urge to scurry away like the rat he obviously believed her to be was strong. Only the thought of David Parker’s displeasure if she did not deliver her story kept Lori rooted in place.

“I am going to give you a chance to admit or deny my findings. You should be thanking me for that opportunity rather than insulting me, my lord.”

For one long, tension-filled moment she thought he’d tell her to go to the devil.

But then he jerked his chin toward the French doors that led to the terrace. “Outside,” he barked. When the group of young bucks prepared to follow, he glared at them. “The rest of you stay .”

Before Lori could gloat over their shattered expressions Lord Severn snapped his fingers at her. “With me, Miss Fontenot!” He turned and strode toward the doors without waiting to see if she followed.

Lori seethed at his peremptory command but trotted after him like an obedient puppy. Severn didn’t have to push and shove through the crowd; they just parted for him as if he were some Biblical prophet of old.

Once they were outside, Severn didn’t stop on the terrace but continued down one of the well-lighted paths that led into the garden. When they were quite alone, he abruptly stopped, turned, and once again crossed his arms. “Speak.”

His arrogant behavior made her want to tell him to go to the devil, but she controlled herself and said, “I have recently acquired evidence about a smuggling ring that is being operated out of the West Dock. “

His black eyebrows descended. “So what? There are more smugglers in London than there are fleas on a cur, and a great many of them make use of the West Dock. What makes your smuggling ring so special?”

“It involves two ships, five London brothels, and an untold number of street procurers who abduct girls and boys and sell them to brothels in Marseilles. My sources confirm that your ship, the Vixen, and your brothel—the er, The King’s Purse—are both involved.”

His lips curved into an unpleasant smile. “How did you come by this information?”

“Three journalists have been tracking your movements.” Or so her employer claimed. Lori wasn’t sure she believed David, but she’d seen Severn talking to at least three of the procurers herself, so she felt secure in her claim.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice eerily without any inflection.

“That is so.”

“And what have they seen, pray?”

“You speaking to all five of the brothel owners involved in this child prostitution ring.”

He didn’t speak. Instead, he just stared.

Lori felt as if something invisible was pressing down on her, growing heavier and heavier by the second.

“How interesting,” he said after about a century. His voice was mild—far milder than it had been just a moment earlier—but, for some reason, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Did you hear these conversations?”

“Er, no.”

“So, just observing conversations is enough for you to believe that I’m involved in selling children?”

She blinked at the question. “No. There is more evidence than just those conversations.” Not that David Parker, her editor, had shared any of it with Lori.

“Who provided this information, Miss Fontenot?”

“I can’t tell you that. A source’s identity is—”

He turned and strode back toward the house.

“Wait!” Lori called after him. “Where are you going?” She had to trot to keep pace with him. “Lord Severn! If you leave now, my editor will print this story, which implicates you as the—”

For a huge man, he moved like a cat and Lori yelped and staggered back when he turned on her. In her haste to get away from him, she tripped over one of the many rock features that bordered the pathway and would have fallen if his huge hands hadn’t closed around her upper arms and then jerked her upright.

“Thank you, my lord. Er, you can release me now,” she said when he did not let her go.

His hands tightened. “Tell me specifically how I am supposed to be involved, Miss Fontenot?” His jaw flexed and his pale eyes glittered coldly. “Or am I not allowed to know the charges being made against me?”

She swallowed. “You provide the capital to purchase the stolen children and then transport them on your ship. You brought the buyer and seller together. You were the one who—”

“That is all a lie,” he growled between clenched teeth.

How had Lori ever thought that Severn was icy and controlled? Right now, the air around him crackled with barely suppressed violence and the air itself was almost too hot to breathe.

“D-do you have any evidence of that?” she stammered.

A look of startlement passed over his starkly handsome features and then he gave a bark of unamused laughter. “I need to provide evidence of something that has never happened? How am I supposed to do that, Miss Fontenot?”

Lori perked up. “If you would allow me to come aboard your ship and—”

“No.”

“I would only ask them ab—”

“ No.”

“It is not a case of your word against one other person’s,” she warned him. “We have several witnesses willing to attest to what you are doing.” Or so David had promised her.

His hands tightened painfully. “I want names.”

“I cannot—”

“How dare you threaten to wreck my life with lies and innuendo and refuse me the right to face my accusers?”

Lori opened her mouth.

“If you print a story accusing me of engaging in child slavery and prostitution you will be very, very sorry. And so will your weasel of an employer.” His arresting eyes lowered to her mouth, and he leaned so close that for one terrifying moment Lori thought he was going to kiss her. But then his gaze snapped back to her eyes. “Heed my warning, Miss Fontenot: Do not have anything to do with the printing of these lies.”

As suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he released her and stormed down the path, disappearing so quickly into the darkness that he might have been just another shadow.