Sins of a Rakehell (The Rakehells of Mayfair #3)
Prologue
Lord Simon Alexander Blackthorne, Earl of Camden, and many lesser titles to which he has paid little heed.
Mayfair, England
The last Mayfair Rakehell.
That’s what the ton was calling him now. It bothered Simon more than it should; however, he could not articulate why that was so.
Striding through the ballroom, Simon was aware of the whispers trailing in his wake.
In the weeks since the surprise wedding between his sister, Emily, and his best friend Wylder St. Clair, rumors had run rampant.
Endless speculation regarding the wedding and the possibility of Simon being the next to fall into the parson’s trap plagued his every step.
A ridiculous assumption. Simon had decided long ago that marriage was a prison fit only for fools, and he held fast to that sentiment. He refused to be trapped at the altar of matrimony.
Taking a lover was another matter entirely, and Simon was determined to continue taking them as he pleased.
He preferred them soft, eager, and unforgettable—each encounter a conquest and their departure from his bed by morning a resounding victory.
He had no interest in vows, rings, or respectable women.
His pleasures were found in long nights steeped in brandy, bedsheets tangled with willing partners, and wagers won and lost on the turn of a card.
Desire was pursued with reckless abandon in a world where a kiss meant nothing and women were indulgences meant to be sampled and quickly discarded.
Each excess was another stone laid upon the road to his own destruction, and Simon had no wish to stray from that path. But even he could not ignore the air of ruin that pursued him. He danced on its very edge, daring destiny to shove him over the cliff and onto the jagged rocks below.
Raking a hand through his perfectly tousled dark hair, Simon’s lips curled with faint aggravation. If respectability wanted him, it would have to take him properly. In fire. In scandal. Fighting to the very end with teeth bared and heart protected.
It was possible his demise could come in the most dangerous form of temptation that London could offer—a beautiful, wealthy, virginal heiress determined to trap him.
That will never happen.
“Congratulations are in order, Lord Camden,” Lord Williamson said as Simon accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant. “An advantageous match for both parties, it appears. Although I daresay Wyldewood fared better in the bargain.”
Simon ground his teeth, careful not to say anything which might add fuel to the fire. “Any man marrying my sister would naturally be considered the more fortunate party. We are beyond pleased to welcome the earl into the family.”
“They are placing wagers on the length of your continued bachelorhood at White’s,” Lord Williamson commented, his pudgy face splitting with a wide grin. “All of the desperate mamas with eligible daughters have pinned their targets upon your chest.”
“I am fully aware of the unique danger I now face,” Simon muttered, glancing about the ballroom.
He was currently the subject of many whispered conversations and the unwilling recipient of simpering smiles and fluttering lashes from this year’s crop of fresh-faced debutantes.
The state of the betting books at White’s and other gentlemen’s clubs reflected his dilemma in the worst possible ways.
Simon felt a twinge of desperation in the pit of his stomach.
There was no explaining it, but the lingering sensation that some unknown disaster lurked within the gleaming, polished veneer of the ballroom could not be shaken away.
An unseen calamity pressed close, whispering on the wind that his ruin would not come from duel or debt, but something more inevitable and closer than he could have imagined.
He sighed heavily. He should have ignored the invitation to this evening’s event.
But the news of his sister’s hasty wedding left him with little choice.
He must bravely represent his family, staving off suggestions of scandal to the Blackthorne name until his parents, Wylder, and Emily all returned to London.
“It’s said Lord Wyldewood obtained a special license with nary a peep of dissent from the archbishop.
Certainly, the earl is a powerful ally to call family.
” Lord Williamson downed his drink and motioned for another.
“Indeed, amongst the three of you, I’m not sure who could be considered the most powerful.
Marriage does tend to suggest a certain air of stability, and even if Lord Ashcroft married a vicar’s daughter, he’ll still be a duke one day.
As will Wyldewood. Ah, what is the saying?
Men must put aside childish things…or something of that nature.
Anyway, it’s a fact that most of us will be trapped by the parson’s noose eventually. ”
Simon said nothing, although his eyes narrowed with irritation at the man’s pointed observations and his blatant mangling of the biblical quote from the book of Corinthians.
Simon, Wylder, and Lucien were all as close as brothers, and such discussions had never arisen between them.
But the insinuation that his friends were smart enough to marry while he chased bachelorhood stung more than he cared to face.
Glancing about the crowded ballroom, he searched for an escape and saw a set of doors that had been thrown open to an expansive terrace and the cool breeze.
“Have you heard the latest on dit regarding Lord and Lady True?” Lord Williamson asked absently. “I only mention it because of your sister’s close friendship with their daughter.”
Simon tilted his head, curious despite himself and the overwhelming need to escape the ballroom.
“Seems a distant relative of Lord True has up and died. A great-aunt of some sort and distantly related through marriage on Lord True’s side.
” Lord Williamson waved a hand. “But that is neither here nor there…it’s been said that this departed aunt bequeathed an enormous sum of money to Miss True.
If the rumors are accurate, she’ll no doubt be one popular lady upon her return to Town. ”
A frown creased Simon’s brow as he tried making sense of the man’s words. “What do you mean?”
“It’s no secret the girl’s parents have nearly exhausted all avenues of finding a husband for the unfortunate creature.
Indeed, the only man willing to post up an offer has been Lord Gregory Grant.
” Lord Williamson’s face wore a faint scowl at the mention of the man’s name.
“He’s hardly one that I would choose for any daughter of mine, if I had any daughters, that is.
” He brightened with his next words. “But now Miss True is likely an heiress of sorts, the girl will have a greater selection of potential husbands. I imagine there will even be an entry or two in the wager books as to future suitors. And an eventual husband.”
“Are you under the impression that Miss True is still visiting my family’s estate?” Simon inquired, wondering whether he had perhaps misunderstood the man’s statement.
“Well, yes.” Lord Williamson said, puzzlement stamped across his bland features. “Isn’t she?”
Simon shook his head. “She departed for London three weeks ago. Indeed, I have no reason to believe that she is anywhere other than with her family.”
“Oh, dear. Do you suppose that means the girl has gone missing?” The man appeared most gleeful over the unexpected bit of gossip, his brown eyes lighting up. “What an astounding development.”
“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” Simon murmured.
Surely there must be some mistake. Penelope left for London the same morning Emily was thrown from her mare.
In the tangle of events that occurred, all culminating in the wedding between Emily and Wylder, was it possible Penelope had gone missing?
Good God. Are her parents honestly unaware of her whereabouts? Or is this merely a simple misunderstanding? It does not seem rational that she would vanish into thin air.
Apprehension, sharp and unrelenting, stabbed Simon’s heart, although why he should be so concerned was most confusing. He barely knew Penelope True, although she was the best of friends with his sister and had enjoyed a close relationship with his family for years. His parents simply adored her.
Emily will be devastated if something has happened to Penelope.
“Excuse me, Lord Williamson,” Simon murmured, wondering if the sweat he felt popping up on his brow was noticeable. “I suddenly require a breath of fresh air.”
“Of course,” Lord Williamson said, obviously distracted by a possible mystery unfolding right before him.
“I see Lord Grant over by the refreshment table. As odious as I find the man, I believe I shall inquire of him regarding Miss True’s whereabouts.
I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation for all of this.
” The man frowned again. “Or there could be a more nefarious plot afoot. It is possible someone has abducted the girl for her newly acquired wealth. What scoundrel would dare something so outrageously bold?”
Simon watched the other man hurriedly walk away, and that strange feeling of dread…of something irreversible happening…trickled down his spine once more.