Chapter 1

S eated at a table in the far-left corner of The Devil’s Den, Mr. Lachlan Latimer took in the salacious scene before him: a titillating, flexible , ballet dancer who removed the filmy layers of her costume as she performed. A masked woman in black leather cleverly wielded a crop on a virginal beauty in white.

The once great gaming hell, built by London’s most lethal gangster, Mac Diggory, had since passed hands from the man’s bastard daughters and adopted son, Broderick Killoran, to now, Stephen, the Earl of Dynevor.

The tinkling of crystal touching crystal as glasses were poured and the ribald laughter filled the hall as it would any gaming establishment. But upon quick glance, the card tables were shy of full, and the patrons were few, the tables were scratched and stained in places. The flicker of candlelight danced on the unpolished surfaces; illuminating imperfections.

Seated here as he’d been the better part of six hours, Latimer had a fuller understanding as to the health of The Devil’s Den.

Since Diggory’s death—or, based on underground whispers, defection—and Broderick Killoran’s marriage some years ago, The Devil’s Den had begun a slow descent into neglect. At least, when compared to newer, loftier, rival clubs, like Forbidden Pleasures and Lucifer’s Lair.

Here, the faro, hazard, and vignt et un tables never reached capacity. Lords played yet checked their timepieces as if eager to leave.

The one thing to recommend The Devil’s Den? The otherworldly beauty of the Cyprians engaged in wicked acts with the patrons throughout. There were not, however, enough of those lush lovelies to provide services to even half of the already small membership.

Latimer’s nape prickled with a sensation from his time on the streets.

A delicate, perfectly manicured hand slid over his shoulders. Soft, plump lips touched his ear in a delicate kiss. “You are lonely, sir. Let me fix that.”

As the bastard of some unknown whore and her unknown client, Latimer had been born alone and preferred that solitary existence. But neither was he a man who didn’t have a need to slake his lust—or hesitated to do so.

That, however, wasn’t what brought him here this night.

“I’ve had my eye on you all night,” the Cyprian whispered. The earthy, musky, spicy scent of saffron hung in the air as she spoke.

“Have you, sweet?” he asked non-committal, while she massaged his pectoral muscles.

Taking his question as an invitation, the woman slipped around and availed herself to a place on his lap. With her gleaming strands of fiery-red curls, big breasts, big hips, and even bigger lips, the Devil’s Den Cyprian was for certain a woman of great beauty who could—and surely did—fetch a fine price.

She nuzzled his neck. “It’s hard not to notice such a big, muscular man like you,” she whispered throatily, between sucking and kissing his flesh.

“And yet, I’ve been here four hours and haven’t had the pleasure of your company once,” he drawled.

Lust burned in the beauty’s eyes. “Ariel has been a bad girl.”

“I take it you’re, Ariel?” he asked dryly.

She pushed her lower lip out in a very deliberate pout. “I’ve upset you.”

“Impossible, sweet.”

In matters of lust and sex and self-gratification, Latimer remained emotionally detached. Matters of business, however? A muscle jumped in his jaw. That was an altogether different story—and the most important one.

“You must punish me.” Ariel caught Latimer by his lapels and with impressive force, drew him close so their lips nearly touched. “I want to be punished.”

In one quick move, she straddled him, dangling her voluptuous legs on either side of his hips so his cock was pressed against her cunny. The flimsy wisp of gossamer fabric she wore and the fine wool of Latimer’s trousers marked a small barrier between them.

The sultry beauty began to rock herself into him. “I neglected you for too long,” she rasped. “I must rectify that for the both of us.”

Before Latimer could politely decline, the skilled beauty already slipped deft fingers between his legs and gripped his cock.

Her skilled touch got its expected result as blood surged to that randy organ.

“You’re hard all over,” she whispered excitedly, like one speaking to herself. “Let Ariel help you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Help me or yourself?”

The eager Cyprian moaned. “Both.”

Latimer chuckled; and even determined as he was to remain clear-headed, lust leant a rough quality to his amusement. He attempted to dislodge her eager fingers which she now used to play with his ballocks.

This time, as she humped him, her movements took on an urgency that couldn’t be faked.

This particular visit, however, had nothing to do with sexual gratification—at least, not for him. “As lovely as you are, sweet,” Latimer said, at last detaching her hand from his balls, “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to regretfully decline. For now,” he lied, to soften the blow.

She pouted. “Ooh, a challenge.” As if impassioned even more by that incorrect assumption, she ground wildly against him.

No, it really wasn’t. When it came to matters of business, Latimer possessed a Herculean willpower. Not even the most skilled courtesan or stunning Aphrodite could make him lose focus.

The auburn-haired beauty’s eyes, glassy with desire, grew more heated. “You want to make me suffer because I neglected you,” she said, her voice heavy with hunger. “Come to my rooms. Let me feel your wrath.”

She made to take Latimer’s mouth, but he drew back, denying her what she sought.

This time, he lifted the deft Cyprian from his lap and set her on her feet. “Some other time, sweet.” He gave her a firm swat on her buttocks, giving her some of what she craved.

She moaned, thrusting her hips at the air. “ Please. ”

Latimer tensed feeling someone come up behind him, too late.

“That will be all, Ariel.”

Stephen Warwick, current Earl of Dynevor and future Marquess of Maddock.

At the same time, the lovely Cyprian stole a peek at the figure beyond Latimer’s shoulder, demurely lowered her eyes, and made to dash off when the other man stayed her once more.

“Do not go far, sweet.” Lachlan felt the young proprietor’s calculated gaze on him while he spoke to Ariel.

Ariel dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.” Doing the commanding man’s bidding, she scurried away, leaving the two gaming hell proprietors alone.

Latimer stood and turned to face the young earl.

Both men sized one another up.

An inch past or an inch shy of six feet, Dynevor, in black, bore the high-quality garments of a fancy lord. The hardness of his features and the icy glint in his eyes, however, told a different tale.

“Dynevor,” Latimer said.

The gentleman’s lips quirked up in a cold smile. “Imagine,” he murmured, almost tauntingly. “Forbidden Pleasures’ very own proprietor, Lachlan Latimer, here at my club. Tell me, Latimer, are things so bad at your clubs you have to visit mine?”

Latimer answered with an equally frosty grin and a question of his own. “Afraid to find me here, Dynevor?”

The man’s hard mouth tightened. “Ain’t afraid of anyone,” he snarled.

Just as sex hadn’t brought Latimer here, neither had a desire for a good, healthy fight. He’d had enough of those over the past months dissolving his ownership stake at Forbidden Pleasures.

“Aye,” Latimer conceded. “I believe that, Dynevor.” He’d also learned the young proprietor may be fleet of foot, but he had a recklessness that matched his eighteen years of age.

Somewhat mollified, the earl grunted. “ Oi wasn’t sure it was you, for a bit.”

“Ah, which is why you sent your most skilled Cyprian.”

“She wasn’t the most skilled.” The earl dangled that information like some irresistible temptation Latimer wouldn’t be able to deny.

When Latimer didn’t elicit the desired response from Dynevor, the other man snapped. “Do you believe I’d waste my finest on the enemy?”

Undaunted, Latimer looked the dead-eyed proprietor square on. “Are you going to toss me out, Dynevor?”

“Whyever, would I do that?” The earl’s cocksure grin returned. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He masked his surprise. “Have you?”

“Yes.” The earl gestured for Latimer to sit. “I make it a habit of learning everything I can about my rivals,” he explained after Latimer reclaimed his chair.

Masking his surprise, he took advantage of a short quiet while Dynevor availed himself of the open seat across from him.

Struggling as it’d been for years, The Devil’s Den hadn’t even merited his and his former partners’ attention.

“Didn’t give my club any thought, did you?” the hard-eyed earl asked, accepting an empty glass and new bottle from a big-breasted beauty. She put a new empty snifter before Latimer. “That kinda carelessness ain’t good, Latimer,” he said, when the plump woman had gone.

“No,” he acknowledged, cagily eying the proprietor. “You have the right of it there.”

Dynevor put all his attention into his pour; Latimer didn’t believe that absorption for one minute.

“For years, I’ve been waiting for one of you or your men to send one of their lackey’s here.” He lifted his bottle of whiskey.

Latimer quietly declined.

Dynevor lifted shoulders, surprisingly broad for one so young, served himself a drink and reclined in his chair. “I expected it’d be you, as our clientele is one you could relate to.”

“Because I’m street-born?” he said bluntly.

“Yes, Craven and Argyll wouldn’t dare sully their aristocratic roots in this place, which is why they sent you.”

Casually sipping his drink, Latimer swept his gaze around the still uncrowded floors. This place had the look of the lost city of Atlantis, once great, but now buried and decaying.

“Ah, you see the fade upon it,” Dynevor noted.

“I didn’t say that,” Latimer remarked.

The earl snorted. “You didn’t need to.” He pointed a finger Latimer’s way. “That, Latimer, is what allowed you and your partners to stay in the dark while we studied you.”

He donned a grin. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Yes, I knew the day would come,” Dynevor spoke contemplatively. “The question is why? Why now ?”

Clever lad. He’d expected Latimer. The earl wouldn’t , however, have gathered his reason for doing so. No one knew of Latimer’s separation from Forbidden Pleasures. Nor would they until the split was formally authorized and Latimer had his equity stake in hand.

Dynevor stopped his drumming. “ Could it have something to do with,” he dropped his voice, “your split with Forbidden Pleasures.”

Too impressed to be annoyed, Latimer inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You did your research.”

The young proprietor narrowed his eyes. “Let’s not mince words. What do you want?”

Latimer appreciated that blunt directness which was so foreign to the other priggish lords who ruled the world.

“I believe we would make each other good partners, Dynevor.”

“I don’t want a partner,” the earl snarled. “I’m rebuilding this club in my vision.” That deep, guttural statement bore the harsh quality of one who’d survived more fires than a cat and his voice told the grisly tale. “And I certainly don’t need you.”

Latimer kept his features impassible. “I believe you almost believe that, but I also know you’re far more clever than prideful, and want to hear what it is I’m proposing.”

Dynevor gave another one of his grunts.

Taking that as leave to continue, Latimer went on. “You and I, weren’t raised by the peerage.”

The whole world knew the story of Dynevor abducted as a babe, raised by Mac Diggory—the most feared gang leader in England—only to be discovered and returned to his father, the Marquess of Maddock.

“Yes, you were born to it,” Latimer continued. “But we both know you spent most of your years, thus far, in the harshest streets. Your being an earl isn’t the same as Argyll, Craven, and Rutherford, who were born with a silver spoon in their pompous mouths.”

“By that admission, why would I need you to guide me on the debauched experiences the peerage craves?” Dynevor asked, more curious than angry. “You can’t offer me something I don’t already have knowledge about.”

“No,” Latimer agreed. “On the surface, I can’t.”

“Go on,” he said.

“In my case, I’ve been taking orders from three dukes. In your case, you’re taking over something that’s been established by your brother-in-law, Broderick Killoran. Killoran, who the world over knows sought to build a grand gaming empire for the nobility, and my former partners who were nobility, and who offered clients the same services and pleasures they enjoyed.”

Encouraged by the intent way Dynevor attended him, Latimer dragged his chair closer and pushed the best point of his sell.

“Killoran was… is …like us. But you and I?” He motioned between the two of them. “We have all the street’s sins in our souls. Our clubs, my former one,” he amended, gritting his teeth at the reminder of that still fresh betrayal. “The Devil’s Den, both focus exclusively on carnal pleasures. We can bring them that which they clearly crave, and more…events and activities associated with London’s underbelly.”

An eager light blazed to life in the young man’s eyes.

Following his train of thought, Latimer finished for him. “Fighting. Tattoos. A music hall. Ritualistic shows. A place where the nobility with a taste for sharing their partners can happily do so and have the audience they crave.”

The Earl of Dynevor practically drooled.

Catching Latimer’s eyes on him, the young man transformed his features into a scowl. “Wot’s to keep me from taking your idea and building it all myself?”

Not unlike Latimer once had, the young man’s tones moved between Cockney and King’s English. But then, Latimer had about a decade plus more of practicing his speech.

“Because in addition to sizeable wealth I have in hand from the success of…of my club, I have even more funds coming in once the sale of my portion of Forbidden Pleasures is finalized; money which we can use to fund the vision,” he said matter-of-factly. “Which would be helpful as your father, the marquess, is not permitting you to invest his vast wealth in businesses such as,” Latimer looked about, “this.”

Dynevor stared at him for a long while and Latimer couldn’t make out what the young man was thinking.

“I’m not reliant on the marquess,” he finally said, without anger, and only a boy would be insulted by Latimer’s statements of fact.

“Oh?”

“There’s a woman who’s…investing in me.”

“In you?”

“Not in that way,” Dynevor barked. His cheeks went red. “I’m not a whore.” The younger man visibly struggled to rein in his volatile temper. Lord Dynevor gave his midnight black lapels a tug. “She is a sort of friend of the family…a lady,” he added that last part almost reluctantly.

“A lady?” he asked, seeking clarification.

“She is an earl’s daughter,” the earl added with clear reluctance.

Latimer’s interest flagged. “Not interested in doing with fancy ladies.” Or lords. Hence the reason he’d sought out this nob raised on the streets.

“She’s not like other fancy ladies.”

Latimer snorted. He’d heard that before. Two of the times being from his former friends who’d sold him out for their fine mannered ladies.

Latimer stood. “You have your mystery lady. You don’t require a partner.”

Dynevor scrambled to his feet. “ Oi didn’t say that!”

The earl had tipped his hand. The mottled flush splotching the young man’s sharply too-defined cheeks said he knew it, too.

Dynevor explained after they’d both sat down again. “She cannot openly fund the investment.”

“Ah,” Latimer sneered. There wasn’t a thing in the world worse than a bloody nob, except, a fine lady. “Too fine and fancy to dirty her fingers.”

“Too loyal to moi bloody family to openly go against their wishes,” the young man muttered.

That’s why The Devil’s Den fell from its once great, but very brief, reign of glory.

“Your siblings at The Devil’s Den all married respectable and cut ties with the world they were born to.” How…typical.

“Not all of them.”

Dynevor didn’t offer anything more than that about which of his brother or sisters remained with their foot in the Dials.

“As for your nameless lady, Dynevor, given the fact you didn’t let me walk out, I take it to mean she doesn’t have the amount of money you require.” To fix the state of disrepair.

He didn’t say it. They’d already established Dyvenor’s club needed saving. Insulting the man on the cusp of becoming a partner didn’t do Latimer any good.

“No, but she’s loaned me a good sum.”

“How deep is your debt?” Latimer probed.

There was, after all, no point in taking on a sinking venture.

“If I ceased accepting monies from her, I’d be able to repay within a fortnight. I’d just need to reduce my liquor purchases by half, for two months.”

“That’s sizeable.”

“But I’d have a way,” Dyvenor said. “If I wanted it.”

“Does she have a stake?” Latimer asked bluntly. There was also no point carrying on if he’d become a third partner. “Because I’m not looking to play the third wheel.” He’d already played third and fourth and it’d brought him to this humbling moment.

“She isn’t a formal partner. She wouldn’t—” the earl clarified.

“Ah, your family connections.”

“Exactly. If the lady were joined in marriage to a proprietor of The Devil’s Den, then there’d be an…understanding and acceptance of her involvement.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Given you aren’t yourself already married to the lady, I’m going to have you state what exactly it is you’re proposing, Dyvenor.”

“You don’t need me to state it,” the young man rejoined with a matching directness. “ You know. You’ll marry the lady.”

Latimer was already shaking his head. “The hell I—”

“It’d benefit us all: I’d get the funds needed to restore this place to its once great glory, while also inheriting a partner with not only a skill of the business but a fortune to his name. You’d build the club of your vision.”

“I’m not interested.”

In fact, he’d rather tie a noose around his neck than tie himself to one of those fancy ladies with their golden twats and sense of superiority.

“Come, Latimer,” Dynevor said impatiently. “We both know how easily business alliances fall apart; that the only thing to hold them together is through forging actual alliances, in the same way all the most powerful emperors have since the beginning of time.”

“I’d rather slit my throat than marry a lady.”

The earl chuckled and gave a wry shake of his head. “That’s a rather…strong take.”

“It’s the only ‘take’. We’re at an impasse, Dyvenor.”

“I don’t think we are.” The young man let that dangle there.

“I’m not looking to play games,” Latimer warned.

“This lady might be more appealing than you are thinking.”

His ears caught something in the earl’s tone. He nodded slowly. “Go on.”

“This silent financier is a duchess…the Duchess of Argyll.”

Latimer sat up straighter. Argyll’s stepmother, near in age to her stepson. Latimer hadn’t bothered to learn the details of the late duke’s remarriage to a young beauty, or end of all mention of the young duchess, after Argyll’s father passed.

“I see I have your attention now.” Dynevor tossed back his whiskey in a quick swallow. Impressively, the young man didn’t even flinch while it went down.

“I’m listening,” Latimer grudgingly conceded.

“The lady’s stepchildren were less than welcoming, or for that matter, kind to the new wife. After her husband’s death, Argyll forbade her from the main ducal grounds and estates. He offered a cottage in Cotswolds she could retire to, and the lady built herself up enough in various ventures to end all reliance on Argyll. Now tell me, Latimer, if you were building a gaming hell to not only rise above Forbidden Pleasures but one powerful and successful enough to drive Argyll and DuMond’s into the ground, what better way to do so and have some revenge than to wed the stepmama he banished?”

Dyvenor had him.

The cocksure lad knew it, too.

But Latimer would be goddamned if he gave this man—or for that matter, any person—that kind of satisfaction. As such, Latimer made the cocksure lad wait and pretended to contemplate the proposal .

Latimer, unlike his partners, wasn’t so plebian or weak as to suffer from high emotions : not irrepressible rage, not sorrow, not jealousy. None of it.

He was a master of his self-control. Although he loathed pampered peeresses, he could see past his disdain—as long as he stood to benefit. The unions couples of all stations entered into—his former partners included—were nothing more than business arrangements.

Most just deluded themselves into thinking it was something more.

No, Latimer wasn’t a man to let his restraint slip because of some woman. He’d been born without family and lived an even colder existence to know the sentiment known as love was pure shite. Those pathetic fools plucked it from the clouds like spun sugar.

Now, power? Strength? Wealth? All that, however, he did crave.

Latimer nudged his chin. “Depending on the terms, I’m in.” He opened his mouth to suggest they discuss the details somewhere else, and sometime later.

“Tsk. Tsk,” Dynevor interrupted. “There’ll be time enough later to negotiate the details.”

“What else would there be to discuss?” he asked coolly.

“Not discuss, per se.” The younger man looked around his fading empire. “At least not with me.”

Latimer stared at him. What was he on about?

“Please, let me invite you to try one of the Cyprians here at The Devil’s Den.”

He snorted. “I’m not a lad who needs to have his lust slaked, Dynevor.”

“Neither am I,” the other proprietor replied. “I’m a master of restraint.”

In some areas , Latimer believed. Despite the earl’s younger years, Dyvenor possessed a cold, jaded, emotionless facade that couldn’t be pierced by baser urgings or feelings .

“I took you for a more thorough man,” Dynevor remarked. “Before we enter into an official arrangement, I’d expect you to do a thorough evaluation of all the club. Don’t you wish to experience for yourself what The Devil’s Den has to offer .”

On clear cue, that pretty beauty, Ariel with auburn tresses and curves in all the right places, and a tall slender woman with chestnut hair, sidled up to Dyvenor. The exquisite beauties flanked him on either side, giving him the look of a barbarian emperor, who’d invited a guest to feast on his offering.

“You found the number of Cyprians here wanting and took that as a sign of weakness, the women here,” he explained, draping an arm around each siren and lazily stroking their breasts. “The women at The Devil’s Den aren’t desperate souls like the ones employed at your previous club. I’ve visited and poached the ones who crave sex. These are experienced, lustful women who don’t see sex as a chore or necessity but who crave it the same way they would food and water. Maybe more so.”

The earl slapped them each on nearly identical curved arses.

After they’d gone, he spoke. “If there’s a woman for every man…or woman, well, where’s the fun in that,” he drawled. “Or demand?”

Latimer took the Cyprians flitting about in a new light; them and the solitary, inebriated, fellows longingly eying those tempting and touching the other patrons. “Supply and demand,” he mused.

Dynevor inclined his head.

It was a surprisingly clever way to come at the offerings available to the Devil’s Den clients, and also what set the hell apart from the rest that catered to the debauched.

“As I said, I didn’t send my finest before,” the earl said, as Latimer took in the lustful sights around them.

Dynevor crooked a finger.

In an instant, an even grander beauty than Ariel, materialized.

With unbound, red-tinged brown curls, enormous breasts, a thick waist, and even thicker hips, she had the look of a fertility goddess. And—by the sly glint in her darkly lined, cat-shaped, eyes—the boundless, wild, lust of Venus, too.

“Ariel didn’t succeed in seducing you, Latimer. I wager you won’t manage the same restraint with Venus.”

Ah, Venus. Latimer chuckled. “Apt name.”.

“You have no idea.” The earl flashed another cynical grin. “But you will.”

Venus looked to her employer for approval.

Like a benevolent lord, he motioned for Venus to carry on. “It’s business for you ,” Dyvenor noted, as the lush beauty leaned over Latimer and pressed her big breasts against his chest. “But for Venus here, it’s all pleasure. Both of your needs will be met.” He wagged his blond eyebrows. “In your case, all of them.”

Venus bit the shell of Latimer’s ear; rough, as he’d always liked his bed sport. As such, he couldn’t stop his breath from increasing slightly.

Enough for the other man to notice. “Go. Take her.”

This time, Latimer let Dyvenor’s beauty take him by the hand and lead him through a nearby door.

Just as they made to leave, the earl called over. “Tough work, isn’t it?” he asked, laughing.

A short while later, in one of the private suites, with Venus kneeling between his legs, and working magic with her mouth upon his cock, he noted this was anything but work.

Latimer’s breath grew ragged; he tangled his fingers in the seductress’s wild curls and set the pace he loved.

Now, he understood the power of what Dynevor was selling.

His ballocks tightened and his eyes slid closed.

Before he emptied himself into Venus’s throat, he had but one thought—this empire would thrive again, and Latimer would be at the helm.