Code of Honor (Intrepid Heroines #9)

Chapter 1

One

The Earl of Branford shifted, the slight movement causing a grimace to pass over his well-chiseled features. One eyelid slowly came open, then fell shut at the sight of a hazy but eminently recognizable bottle of brandy perched on the delicate gilt side table.

Good Lord, had he really polished off that one too?

With a groan he rearranged his long, muscled legs, only to find them entangled with a pair of much shorter, softer ones. A slender hand ran lightly over the dark curls of his chest and across the hard planes of his stomach.

“Milord,” murmured a sultry voice. The lady snuggled closer. “It appears you are … awake. Quite awake.”

Stifling another groan, Branford turned and drew his mistress into a deep kiss ….

Half an hour later, he sat up on the edge of the rumpled bed. The dull ache in his head only mirrored the one deep inside him. After briefly massaging his temples, he finished pulling on his boots and then reached for his shirt.

“Must you go? The raven-haired beauty reached up to feather a caress to his cheek.

In answer, the earl hurriedly pulled it on and tied his cravat into some semblance of neatness. He then stood up and donned an impeccably cut coat of navy superfine. Without a pause, he reached into one of the pockets and took out a small box, exquisitely wrapped in embossed paper.

It dropped with a feathery rustle onto the rumpled satin.

“Yes, I’m afraid I must take my leave, Serena”

She unwrapped it. Her jaw tightened slightly, she draped the filigree gold bracelet winking with diamonds and emeralds around her wrist. “It is beautiful.” After a moment she added, “I take it this is goodbye?”

“It’s time, Serena.”

Serena gave a toss of her head, sending the dark ringlets cascading over her shoulders—even in anger, he thought cynically, she managed to look perfect.

“I suppose I should feel flattered that I’ve lasted longer than most of previous your mistresses.”

“It’s nothing personal, m’dear.” He straightened the gold signet ring on his little finger. “My banker will make the necessary arrangements, though with your charms, I doubt you will be without protection for very long.”

“You are a hard man, milord.”

“Come now, Serena, please don’t play the injured party with me. You know very well that you expected no less.” With that, Branford turned and left the bedroom, quietly but firmly closing the door after him.

Outside, the raw chill slapped his face. After turning up the collar of his greatcoat, he settled his curly-brimmed beaver hat on his disheveled locks and climbed into his waiting carriage.

“Damnation.” It was nearly three in the morning and though he was dead tired and feeling muzzy from the effects of the brandy and the boudoir, Branford found that he couldn’t face the idea of returning to his townhouse—an elegant mansion filled with naught but ghosts and recriminations.

Uttering another oath under his breath, the earl rapped on the roof with the tip of his walking stick. “White’s,” he called to his coachman, before settling back against the squabs and forcing himself not to think of the past.

Despite the late hour, there was no dearth of activity at the exclusive club on St. James’s Street.

Gentlemen—many far more inebriated than he was, noted the earl—were still at play in the gaming room while others nursed port or brandy in the comfort of the leather armchairs clustered throughout the rest of the establishment.

Branford handed his greatcoat to the porter and entered one of the sitting rooms. A hush fell over the gentlemen still lingering over their drinks.

Ignoring the wary looks following his progress, he made his way toward a vacant chair and called for a bottle of claret.

After seating himself, he stretched out his legs and slumped back against the soft leather.

The wine quickly appeared and he poured a glass. But instead of raising it to his lips, Branford merely cradled it in his palms and closed his eyes.

He sensed the air of tension in the room dissipate. The buzz of conversation slowly began again as it became evident he didn’t intend to make any of the gentlemen a victim of his hair-trigger temper and razor-sharp tongue.

Notoriety had its benefits—he had a reputation for being dangerous, so thank heaven they would all be more than happy to leave him in peace …

And if he were truly lucky, mused Branford as he drained his glass of wine in one long swallow, he might sink into a welcome interlude of oblivion by dozing off.

The small group of gentlemen gathered by the hearth also had a reputation for heavy drinking, high-stakes gambling and profligate behavior—though they, too, seemed wary of sparking Branford’s ire.

But as the earl’s eyes remained closed, and the empty glass in his hand fell to the carpet, the group resumed resumed exchanging nasty gossip about their fellow members of the beau monde.

“I heard that the Chilton chit behaved in such a shocking manner the other day that she’s all but ruined her reputation,” said one of them, a middle-aged viscount with darting, ferret-like eyes set in an otherwise unremarkable face. “What was her aunt thinking to allow it?”

“Her aunt is too busy with her nose buried in her late husband’s scholarly writings to see beyond her spectacles,” answered Lord Hammerton, an elegantly attired gentleman, his hair artfully arranged in the latest a la Brutus style.

“But it hardly matters whether or not the chit has ruined herself. It’s not as if she had any prospects for marriage.

Not only is she well past the first bloom of youth, but by all accounts, she’s an outspoken, eccentric bluestocking who thinks nothing of breaking any of the rules of Polite Society. ”

“What the devil did she do?” inquired one of the others.

A stout gentleman, whose florid face showed the obvious effects of dissolution, gave an exaggerated leer. “She went to view the marble statues which that damned fellow Elgin brought back from Greece.” A pause. “Alone—with nary a chaperone.”

The man who had asked the question furrowed his brow. “I thought young ladies were allowed to look at art.”

The ruddy-faced man’s leer stretched wider. “They are of horses and men.” He paused. “Naked men.”

A shocked gasp came from two of the group, but another of them, a baronet with the high shirtpoints and fussy waistcoat of a budding dandy, rocked his hips suggestively. “Likes horses, does she? Perhaps she’d like a good mount.”

There were guffaws all around as another bottle of brandy was ordered.

Hammerton took another long draught from his glass and then offered an additional observation. “As I said, she has a reputation of being a wild hellcat. You know—no manners and no morals. Indeed, I heard her arguing—ye gods, arguing—with a gentleman at Lord and Lady Haverly’s rout.”

A wolfish grin curled a up the corners of his mouth. “But then again, I like a filly with spirit for certain activities.” A nasty grin. “None of which include talking.”

Bawdy laughter rippled through the cigar-scented air.

“Enough.” A baronet from Yorkshire, an infrequent visitor to the club, cleared his throat and looked slightly discomfited. After glancing around the room as if to ascertain who was paying them any attention, he added, “We are discussing, er, ladies of the ton, not some lightskirts from Southwark.”

“Ah, but that is what makes it … interesting. We all like challenges, don’t we?

” Hammerton leaned back against the mantel.

As he began toying with one of the many fobs that dangled from his watchchain, he cast a surreptitious look at Branford, who still appeared to be dozing, oblivious to the conversation.

“I wonder whether someone with a reputation of cutting a swath through the ladies—say, for example, Branford—could get a forward girl like Miss Chilton to give him a tumble?” He looked around expectantly as some of the others traded nervous glances.

A young baron drained his glass, swaying slightly in the process. “If anyone can do so it’s Branford. Why, if all the rumors are correct,” he said, “he’s sampled the charms of half the wives of the ton …”

“Including yours, Whitleigh?” jeered one of the others.

A flush rose to the viscount’s face.

“I say it can’t be done,” said another of the group. “The aunt’s not that much of a loose screw, even if the chit is.”

“A bet! A bet!” chorused two other voices, their tongues loosened by the copious amounts of brandy they had consumed.

A ghost of a smile crept over Hammerton’s lips. “What say you, Branford?” he called in a loud voice, his tone conveyed a note of challenge . “Care to partake in a little wager?”

The earl slowly roused himself from his reveries, the flickering light catching a spark of sapphire through the scrim of his dark lashes. “W-What?”

“A wager,” repeated Hammerton. “Our collective ￡500 against yours? With your vast fortune, it seems a fair.”

A hint of emotion seemed to flash in Branford’s eyes at Hammerton’s deliberate emphasis on the words ‘vast fortune’, but his face remained impassive.

“It seems you do not tire of losing your money to me,” he said evenly.

“Over the last month we have been matched at cupping the wafers at Manton’s, racing curricles to Bath and running our horses at Ascot… ” He let his sentence trail off.

Hammerton’s jaw tightened.

“However,” continued Branford, “if it amuses you to keep emptying your pockets, why not?”

“Oh, I think I’ll win this one.”

The earl shrugged. “Then go ahead, put it in the betting book.” he mumbled before once again closing his eyes.

“D-Don’t you wish to hear the bet?” asked Whitleigh.

When Branford didn’t deign to respond, Hammerton raised his brows at the others.

“He seems awfully confidant, but I must say, this time his hubris may come back to bite him on the arse.” A smile slowly came to life .

“Here is the wager—I bet that Branford can’t seduce the chit within a fortnight. Who wishes to join me?”

A murmur of assent came from three of the others.

“Excellent. I shall go enter it in the betting book.”

“How will we have proof of who’s won?” asked one of the others.

The fire hissed and crackled as one of the chunks of coal in the hearth burst into flame.

The sound seemed to rouse the earl just as Whitleigh nodded and echoed his crony’s concern. “Aye, how will we know for sure,”

“Do you doubt my word of honor?” asked Branford softly.

Whitleigh shrank back a step. “O-Of course not, milord! Stupid of me … must have had too much brandy …”

“Go away, all of you,” snapped the earl. “And leave me in bloody peace.”

The group moved off to the far end of the room, and as their conversation drifted on to other topics, Hammerton took his leave and exited the club, a faint but discernable look of satisfaction on his face.