Chapter One
Wylder
Three years later
Mayfair, England
Wylder watched in silence as his best friend scrubbed his jaw and blew out a heavy sigh of frustration.
Simon leaned forward in his chair and leveled a glare at Wylder.
White’s, the premier gentlemen’s club in London, was bursting at the seams tonight.
The elegant rooms swarmed with other men much like the two of them.
Men searching for distractions from the endless round of balls, parties, and musicales of London society.
“It’s not the same without him, Wylder, and you know it.” Simon’s voice vibrated with aggravation. “We’re like a statue that’s suddenly missing a leg. It still stands, but it’s certainly not the same.”
Wylder suppressed his own irritation with the subject matter. It was something the two of them had discussed to excess following the Earl of Ashcroft’s recent wedding.
“I’ve never seen someone so in love as Lucien is with Charlotte.
He fucking adores her,” Wylder said glumly, recognizing the source of Simon’s current state.
Young, entitled, and selfish was the blueprint for men who grew up being indulged and catered to.
To have circumstances spiral out of their control was something no one had anticipated. “It’s quite depressing.”
“I know. However, this only means we must remain diligent if we are serious about retaining our status. All of the women coming out of the woodwork of late, believing we shall fall in the same manner as Lucien, is astounding. It’s become a hazardous activity just attending a simple ball.
Even my own sister has stars in her eyes when it comes to seeing me married off.
She’s convinced she must pair me with one of her simpering, vapid friends. ”
Wylder studied the brandy in his glass, his gray eyes darkening at the mention of Simon’s younger sister.
Steeling his jaw, he reminded himself that any hint of interest in Emily Blackthorne must remain buried.
He’d done a fair job of it thus far. Over the last three years, he and Emily shared only benign pleasantries in passing.
Wylder became so adept at ignoring the girl when others were around that no one had any idea he secretly kept track of her activities and the gentlemen pursuing her.
“Maybe we should—” Wylder began, only to have Simon cut him off.
“Don’t even think it, Wylder. There may only be two of us left, but the Rakehells of Mayfair shall not go down in flames. We owe it to ourselves and to Lucien to continue doing the things we thoroughly enjoy.” Simon’s eyes sparked like blue flames.
“I was only about to suggest a new gambling den I thought we might try. We could go tonight.” Wylder shrugged his broad shoulders in an attempt at placation.
“They have comfort women there as well. Perhaps a new place, new experiences, will bring us out of the doldrums we find ourselves in since Lucien and Charlotte married.”
Wylder knew that Simon’s father had threatened to banish his only son to one of their numerous country estates, convinced that such a move would result in a blissful union similar to Lucien and Charlotte’s.
The threat had definitely rattled Simon, and his anger was understandable, although it differed from Wylder’s situation.
His frustration with his own father stemmed from the financial ruin their family teetered upon.
Indeed, marriage to a woman blessed with a large fortune would be a heaven-sent answer to his own prayers.
While he’d been busy rebuilding his personal fortune with Simon’s expert guidance, his father, the Duke of Claymore, was rapidly depleting the family’s inheritance at an alarming rate.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Simon replied enthusiastically. Raising his glass, he leaned toward his friend with a conspiratorial grin. “So, are you ready to show our fathers and all of London that the Rakehells cannot be controlled or ruled?”
Loyalty to his friend demanded Wylder’s participation, of course.
Continuing on the path of a rakehell also kept Emily safely out of his reach.
That was a relationship Simon would never allow, considering Wylder’s sexual proclivities and sordid reputation.
And had he possessed a sister, Wylder knew he would likely feel the same way.
The subject of the event at the Blackthorne Ball never came up in conversation between the two men.
As agreed upon that night, the matter was handled to the satisfaction of both men.
A short-lived fist fight and the unexpected intervention by Lucien, Earl of Ashcroft and leader of the Mayfair Rakehells, had resolved things rather quickly.
Simon would provide financial advice to rebuild the Wyldewood coffers, and Wylder would ignore and suppress any interest he had in Simon’s younger sister.
Regardless of how terribly it wrecked him, this was a devil’s bargain Wylder would abide by. For Emily’s sake. And his own.
Wylder clinked his glass to Simon’s, tossing back the drink with a slight grimace of resignation skillfully hidden from his best friend. Pushing aside any lingering thoughts of Emily Blackthorne, he smiled at the man. “I cannot wait. Let us do our worst.”
*
Few vehicles traversed the dark and narrow streets at this hour, and those people moving about in the misty shadows consisted of bakery carts and a couple of flower vendors sleepily setting up their wares.
The occasional light-skirt trudged by, exhausted by the toils of the previous night and now seeking a doss to sleep a few hours away before starting back up again for the evening.
“Will you be traveling to your personal residence, milord?” the coachman asked from his perch as the sleepy-eyed groom riding at the back of the vehicle opened the door for Wylder.
Wylder frowned at the thought. Making the trip to his townhome on Davis Street meant additional time spent on the rough, cobblestone streets of London.
Based on his current location outside of The Grinning Cockrel, it was far more convenient to go instead to his family’s manor near Hyde Park.
However, just the thought of seeing his parents made his stomach tighten with dread.
He wasn’t sure he was prepared to face the two of them once they discovered his impromptu visit.
In particular, the duke would annoy him with inquiries relating to the search for a wealthy bride worthy of replenishing the ducal coffers.
“Yes, if you please, Robert.” Wylder made his decision then slumped against the plush squabs of the coach seat, rubbing his eyes as his lungs adjusted to the somewhat fresher air of London.
A fallacy when one compared it to the smoky, alcohol-infused interior of the gambling den he had just departed.
“Very good, milord. St. Clair Manor, it is.”
For the next ten minutes, Wylder dozed as the coach wound its way along the roads now dimly lit by the glow of a rising sun.
The streets of London would come alive in a different manner over the next few hours, a different sort of energy holding sway during the daylight hours when compared to the debauchery of the night.
It was relatively quiet until a commotion outside the coach—a noise somewhere between the sharpness of a cry and the strident exclamation of outrage—disturbed Wylder enough to furrow his brow.
“Let go this instance, sir! Oh! You cretin! How dare you…!”
The feminine voice sounded close by but muffled. It was likely coming from one of the narrow alleys that formed a spider-web-like network off the main thoroughfare.
Wylder bolted upright, all his senses immediately alert. He rapped the roof of the coach, which immediately halted the clip-clop of the matched bays.
“Milord?” Robert called down from his perch. “Is there something amiss?”
Swinging the door open, Wylder leaped down from the coach and stumbled on the uneven cobblestones.
“Wait here, Robert.” Staring in the direction they’d just come from, he saw a flash of a dark-blue pelisse in the darkened entrance of an alleyway.
Another feminine squeal of anger rang out, and Wylder clenched his fists as a feeling of dread washed over him.
It cannot be… it cannot. What the hell is she doing this far from home? This early in the morning?
Wylder sprinted toward the lyrical voice, reaching the alley just in time to witness Lady Emily Blackthorne furiously punching the arm of a scrawny, older boy with a ragged mop of dirty blond hair.
The street urchin couldn’t be more than thirteen years of age, and he currently had a grip on Emily’s reticule, his grubby fingers clutching the silk cord with a desperation born of necessity.
Her bonnet was askew, her shoes scuffed, and the blue pelisse was unbuttoned, revealing the thin material of an icy-blue ballgown.
“You think that because I am a woman, you have a right to accost my person? To steal my reticule?” Emily accused him breathlessly, ripping the item away from the boy’s hand.
She let out a victorious cry and proceeded to strike him repeatedly with the small, intricately beaded bag while he tried shielding his head.
“Lud, miss! Stop hittin’ me! It ’urts, it does!”
“Of course it hurts, you imbecile! And it will hurt a lot worse when the bobbies throw you into Newgate for thievery!” Emily threatened, stopping for a moment only to land one more blow to the boy’s midsection.
“Say that you are sorry and that you will never do this again, and I’ll consider letting you go… ”
“Emily!” Wylder’s voice rang out like a pistol shot in the small, dank space.
Emily whirled around, her blue eyes wide with surprise. They widened more as Wylder stalked toward her, and she stumbled back a few steps when he finally reached the pair.
“Lord Wyldewood… what are you doing here?” Emily’s words trailed off as Wylder clamped a hand around the back of the boy’s neck and practically lifted him off his feet.
“I’m sorry, guvnor! Sorry!” the boy screeched, his legs flailing as he tried escaping Wylder’s ironlike grip. “I wasn’t gonna harm her! I swear I wasn’t!”
“Silence,” Wylder instructed the lad, his tone deadly calm.
“Lord Wyldewood… stop!” Emily cried, grabbing Wylder’s arm. “You’re hurting him and—”
“Step aside, Emily,” he snarled, giving the boy a rough shake. “I will handle this matter, and once I’m done with him, I shall turn my attention to you. Rest assured, I expect answers that you will readily provide.”