Chapter 2

2

With every wearystep Lord Richard Seaton took through the somber corridors of Elysium, his headache intensified. The night’s revelry had left him in a disheveled state, the stench of alcohol still clinging to his wrinkled clothes, and the pounding headache only adding to his confusion.

Last night, he’d wanted to forget. His brother Preston had brought news that had made it simply impossible to sleep, alone with his thoughts, imagining what could have happened to his brother Spencer and wondering if he was alive.

Unable to do anything to help, he’d found distraction with an excellent, no doubt smuggled, French bottle of brandy…and the willing widow of a deceased bank owner in Cheapside and her two friends.

Thankfully, the passageway was mercifully dark, the only light coming from dim gas lamps installed at regular intervals. Their dull glow reflected off the rich dark green wall panels. Paintings of stormy seascapes and dramatic mountain ranges seemed to echo the turbulence within him. He trailed behind a footman whose flickering candle cast a halo around him, the thud of their footwear against the wooden floor creating a rhythm that pierced his throbbing head.

As he walked, his mind returned to the spirited teacher who had set his blood boiling with fury. Under normal circumstances, he would hardly give a second thought to a woman like her, dressed in a plain gray muslin gown and apron, spectacles perched on her nose, her gray eyes large and intelligent behind them.

Despite her meek appearance, she infuriated him in no small measure. She had dismissed him as a man of no substance and no consequence. Someone like her, so correct, so judgmental, with her pristine life and an easy answer to everything, had no idea what a man should do once his very soul was plagued.

So why would she possess such an unexpectedly tantalizing allure? Her plush, pink lips in particular. He wondered what they would taste like, perhaps just like she smelled—sweet vanilla and something floral. The thought brought a smirk to his lips.

Shaking his head, he rounded another corner behind the footman, puzzled at his interest in a woman who seemed the polar opposite of the ladies who usually caught his fancy.

He’d lost track of the number of turns they’d taken. The green-paneled walls bearing maritime paintings seemed to create an endless labyrinth. The design of Elysium, he realized, was likely a deliberate attempt by its owner—a man reputed to have his hands in various illicit affairs—to deter unwelcome visits from the likes of the Bow Street Runners.

They finally reached a black door at the end of a corridor. The footman knocked, and a curt “Enter” sounded from within.

Richard and the footman stepped inside, and the latter announced his presence. “Lord Richard Seaton to see you, sir.”

Daylight flooded the room, causing Richard to squint against the sudden brightness. The room’s opulence screamed of wealth. A grand fireplace crackled and hissed, the scent of burning wood enflaming his headache. The presence of real wood in the fireplace, a luxury in the current era of affordable coal, didn’t escape Richard’s notice.

A marble bust of a beautiful female head stared at Richard from the mantel. Plush, deep red carpet swallowed Richard’s footsteps as he walked farther into the room. Elegant mahogany paneling and book-laden shelves adorned the walls, and two large windows, draped in heavy velvet curtains, let in daylight. Richard wondered how a place with so much light coming in from the windows could feel so dark and secluded.

Thorne Blackmore looked up at him from behind his ornate writing desk, where a razor-sharp letter opener glinted.

He was a handsome man in his early thirties, with a square, perfectly shaven jaw, high, almost sharp cheekbones, and long, thick, elegant eyebrows. He had dark, almost black eyes and long eyelashes. A windswept haircut made him look very fashionable, as did his black waistcoat and crisp high white cravat. He didn’t look like a criminal or the owner of a brothel. He looked like a wealthy gentleman…with the body of a fighter and the eyes of a killer.

“Is everything to your satisfaction with your membership, Lord Richard?” asked Blackmore as he interlaced his fingers in front of him on the desk.

“Quite,” said Richard. “I am not here regarding my membership.”

Blackmore’s eyes glanced over him and stopped on the black mud marks on his clothes. He squinted at them, and a sense of unease ran through Richard. “What can I do for you?”

Richard hesitated, his heart pounding. Was he really going to confront Thorne Blackmore, a man notorious for his ruthlessness? He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had no other choice.

He’d do anything for Spencer, the older brother he’d looked up to, a man with confidence, grace, and wits.

Spencer, who had seemed invincible.

“Your men were hired to rough up my oldest brother…the former Duke of Grandhampton…in Portside last September,” said Richard.

Blackmore leaned back in his chair. He eyed Richard with his expressionless gaze. “I cannot confirm nor deny.”

Richard took a step closer. He was not good at confrontations. He was much better at maintaining peace. A knot at the base of his stomach tightened. Blackmore cocked one dark eyebrow and said nothing, just kept staring at Richard with his sharp eyes.

Richard wished the splitting headache would go away, if only so he could think of a plan. What had possessed him to come here after the night he’d just had, with little sleep and too much drink? His family depended on him for answers, and his fear and anger battled deep within him. What if Blackmore refused to tell him anything?

“We thought he’d been killed,” he said. “We buried him. My brother Preston became the Duke of Grandhampton. We all mourned Spencer and came to accept that he was gone.” Richard paused, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Until, last night, Preston told us he’d had the body exhumed, and the coroner had investigated it again. We did not bury Spencer.”

“How wonderful for your family,” Blackmore replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “However, I know nothing, my lord.” He stood up from the desk and stretched his arm out towards the door. “If that is all…”

Richard paced the room, his breathing heavy, glaring at Blackmore. He was certain that the man knew something.

“My brother may be alive. We need information. Please,” added Richard.

Blackmore didn’t reply, only kept eyeing him with those dead, cold eyes. After a long silence, he finally said, “There’s nothing that I can do.”

Richard’s fists clenched with the desire to force this stubborn man to tell the truth.

This was his chance to do something useful for his family and the brother he had idolized his whole life.

He needed to channel the calm and patience he’d honed during countless family disputes, his usual role. He knew that aggression would not help him now; instead, he had to make Blackmore see reason.

“How much?” he asked. “Just name your price, and it will be yours.”

“As you may have noticed, I do not need money.”

“What, then? What would persuade you?”

Blackmore didn’t flinch. “What I want you cannot give me. I’m afraid I have wasted enough of your valuable time already, sir.”

Richard stared at him, furious. Futile desperation boiled inside him like water in a red-hot cauldron, the feeling of irrelevance as familiar as his own shadow.

Spencer had been the heir.

Preston—the spare.

Calliope—the only daughter and sister the family had.

Richard—the pointless youngest son.

The only thing he was good at was mediating between his volatile brothers, trying to lighten the mood.

Being the youngest son should have made it easier for him to pursue his own dreams, but he hadn’t made much of the opportunities he had. His only attempt at love had left him with a shattered heart and wounds he still tried to heal with brandy and the company of willing widows.

Defeat tasted like bile in his throat, but he couldn’t let it show. His siblings and his grandmama were counting on him to get this information, no matter what it took. He would hire someone to follow Blackmore’s men, he decided, tail them from a distance until he found a weakness. It may take weeks or months, but he would be patient. He was a determined man and wouldn’t stop until he got what he needed.

“Very well,” said Richard, turning and walking to the door. “Good day, Mr. Blackmore.”

His hand lay on the cool handle, but before he could pull the door, one word from Blackmore’s mouth made him freeze.

“Wait.”

Richard looked over his shoulder. Blackmore wore a contemplative expression on his face. “Are you unwed, Lord Richard?”

Richard turned to him. “Indeed. Why?”

“My younger sister, half sister, actually, doesn’t belong to my world. We share a father. I was born out of wedlock. She is legitimate, however, and was born and raised a baron’s daughter, in a Mayfair home. But your high society excluded her because of me.”

Blackmore’s sister… He imagined someone like the man before him—tall, dark, and beautiful with cold eyes. No doubt the woman must be spoiled, dressed in the latest fashions, arrogant, and used to her every whim being fulfilled. A shudder went through him, and his stomach dropped like a stone. He made an effort to keep his expression neutral, but he was losing self-control. The conversation felt like it was taking a dangerous turn. “I am very sorry to hear about her situation.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” Blackmore said and casually walked closer to Richard, a glint of danger in his eyes. “But marrying a duke’s brother will help restore her reputation and place. It will return her to the world she was always supposed to be a part of.”

As Thorne Blackmore’s implication sank into Richard’s mind, his stomach tightened with dread.

“And her marriage,” continued Blackmore, “would please me greatly… So greatly, in fact, that I may offer her new husband a valuable gift—the gift of information.”