Earl of Darby: (Once Upon a Widow #4) (Wicked Earls’ Club Round 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  He had built up his reputation as a rake over the past several years, the gossips helping tremendously after his wife’s death. According to the on-dits, the Earl of Darby had drowned his sorrows in alcohol when his wife had mysteriously died. Some said she had been so frightened of his wedding night demands that she had killed herself. Others spoke in whispers of possible murder, only wanting the poor chit’s money and knowing that, as a peer, he could get away with it.

  Neither family had ever commented or spoken of the night, much to the dismay of the prattlers who wanted the sordid details. It had taken years to quiet the tongues. But the rumors still kept nosy mothers at arm’s length, worried for their innocent daughters. It kept him off the list of suitable bachelors.

  In reality, the suicide had been dealt with quietly, with all the efficiency that a peer-related catastrophe was always handled. The law requiring the forfeiture of a suicide’s property—in this case, dowry—was circumvented with a verdict of non compos mentis. A jury of his peers determined that Alice had not been of sound mind when she’d committed the deed. Alice’s mother had testified to her daughter’s melancholia the days before and of the wedding.

  Nicholas rolled his shoulders, the expensive coat hugging his frame, and shoved that unpleasant memory away. Instead, he concentrated on the delightful redhead that would be waiting for him later in his rooms, after a mind-numbing bottle of brandy and a few games of billiards with his two closest friends. He would never repeat the mistake of his father, having no appetite for gaming. His poisons of choice were drink and the type of woman with no desire for a husband.

  His present liaison was a prime article who had the misfortune to be a married to an elderly baron. The husband went to bed early in the evening, and she stayed in Nicholas’s bed until early morning. They’d been meeting weekly for the past year, and it was a pleasant arrangement for both. With the confidentiality afforded by the Wicked Earls’ establishment, however, his mistress could easily be whisked in and out of his rooms at the club, and no one would be the wiser. Though at times, he felt a twinge of pity for the aging baron.

  Nathaniel, Viscount Pendleton, sat in a highbacked leather chair near the fire, legs crossed, head back, a glass in his hand. The embers glinted off the silver cufflink of his sleeve as he swirled an amber liquid against the cut crystal. His brown hair still held streaks of gold from the summer sun, and his green eyes were thoughtful.

  “How did the brandy arrive before me? I just ordered it.” Nicholas stopped at the side table and poured himself a drink from the decanter. “You seem pensive.”

  “I ordered a bottle of my own. I know how you hate to share, Darby,” said Pendleton with a smirk. “And yes, I’m pondering a dilemma.”

  He sat down next to his friend, sinking into the soft leather and crossing his polished Hessians at the ankles. “Let’s wait for Stanfeld, and you can tell us both at once.”

  “Tell me what?” The Earl of Stanfeld entered the room, followed by a man with a bottle. “Thank you, Edward.” He took the decanter and set it next to the one already half-empty.

  “I have a problem,” said Pendleton.

  Stanfeld’s brows rose as he poured a drink. “A monstrous one, if the amount of alcohol is any measure.”

  “Ha! Nothing better than three muddled heads coming up with a solution. I’m sure we could take care of mine and solve all the world’s problems with just one more bottle.”

  “No, that would take at least four.” Nicholas stood, tossed back his last swallow, and poured another. The pleasant warmth was spreading through his body, a promise of sweet numbness and a night of dreamless sleep. He picked up a billiard stick and moved it from one hand to another, checking its weight, its straightness. “Who is the first challenger?”

  Pendleton shook his head. “I’ll yield to Stanfeld. You both play, and I’ll talk.”

  As the men began their game, Pendleton told his story. “You know my sister, Hannah, was supposed to have her first season last year.”

  Both men murmured agreement, then with a nod from Nicholas, Stanfeld hit the first ball with a loud crack.

  “Yes, she changed her mind about a season in London when you married Lady Eliza. Decided to get to know her new sister and wait until she was eighteen.” Nicholas grinned at his opponent’s miss, bent, and sent a ball into a corner pocket. “Hoping to find some sweet, handsome landowner close to home, we assumed.”

  Pendleton nodded. “Well, she didn’t find one and was to come out this winter, arriving in Town after Eliza had the baby in late December or January. But now, Parliament has called a special session in November due to the Peterloo Massacre.”

  Nicholas studied the table and his next move before looking up. “Nasty business, that. Poor souls meeting at a peaceful assembly to hear a speaker, then slaughtered by their own skittish local government.”

  “By the by, Stanfeld, I am sorry about your cousin’s death in that fiasco. I do hope your mother has recovered sufficiently?” Pendleton laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Bloody bad luck, that was.”

  Stanfeld’s mouth tightened, and he nodded. “Thank you, and yes, she’s doing well. His death brought about a long-postponed trip to Scotland to see Mama’s ancestral home.” His countenance brightened. “I almost gave in and wore a demmed kilt but knew I’d only get tangled up in the deuced thing. Now, about the Special Session. You aren’t in the House of Commons, so how does it affect you?”

  “It doesn’t, but you are both members of Parliament and will be in Town...” Pendleton paused, looking uncomfortable. “Hannah wants to come for the start of the season. I could accompany her here, but I can’t leave Eliza alone for too long.”

  “You won’t leave her alone, you mean,” quipped Nicholas. It was well known that Pendleton was a bit overprotective of his wife. She had been abused by a malicious father, who had tried to kidnap her while under the viscount’s protection. The father had made a fatal mistake crossing Pendleton. “I haven’t seen Hannah since she was a child. What kind of woman has she grown into?”

  “I need you to protect her, not ogle her,” said Pendleton. “Both of you.”

  “Won’t your mother accompany her? She’d be protection enough from roving eyes.” Nicholas had met the dowager viscountess once during a summer party at Pendleton Place. She had been a formidable woman. Her icy stare could a freeze a man in his tracks. “Anyway, I’m happy to be of assistance since my sister is also coming out.”

  “Thank you. My mother still hates coming to Town and is using the arrival of her first grandchild to avoid it.” Pendleton sighed.

  Stanfeld laughed. “Believe me, her daughter can be just as daunting. Hannah’s a bit too assertive for my taste, but she’s a tempting armful.”

  “She’d love to hear the tempting part.” Pendleton held his glass up to Stanfeld. “You know she still sets her cap for you. I think she’s convinced once you see her in London, dressed and mingling with the ton, you will fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness for not noticing her remarkable beauty sooner. You could even act as if you don’t recognize her.”

  Stanfeld spit his drink out and swiped at his splattered cravat. “Good God, man, it would be like bedding my sister, and I refuse to encourage her. I, uh, have my eyes on someone.”

  “Oh? Did you find that bonny lass hiding in the heather while you were in Scotland?” Pendleton teased, remembering a conversation they’d had the previous summer.

  The earl turned red. “As a matter of fact, I did. Mama liked Lissie so much, she brought the chit back with us. As company for her this winter, so she says.”

  “So she says,” Pendleton and Nicholas echoed.

  “Back to your dilemma. So, you want us to keep an inconspicuous eye on your sister, I assume. I’m happy to accommodate when I’m here.” Stanfeld paused and took a sip of his brandy. “However, I will only attend the more pressing sessions until February. My sister is also expecting, so my mother will insist on a long visit then. Otherwise, I
’ll be spending more time in the country.”

  “So we get to meet this Scottish lass?”

  Stanfeld looked embarrassed. “Truthfully, she is my cousin’s widow.”

  “And here I thought Darby was the only scoundrel among us.”

  “It’s not like that,” Stanfeld added quickly. “They were betrothed from birth and had more of a friendship than passionate love. She’s unlike any woman I’ve known, except Mama.”

  “I’ve heard those Scottish lasses are lively,” Nicholas teased. “I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Back to you, Pendleton. Who will be chaperoning Hannah if not your mother?” Another crack, a missed shot, and a mumbled curse from Stanfeld.

  “It seems Aunt Bertie has volunteered.”

  This time, Nicholas coughed and spluttered. Lady Roberta was infamous in her appreciation for the male physique. Almack’s had refused her entrance for a time. “I’ll never forget that tabby’s chubby fingers pinching my backside.”

  Stanfeld guffawed, mischief in his black eyes. “I heard you took the lady up on her overture.”

  “Devil it, I doubt I could have kept up with her, even at the tender age of twenty. I thought she finally retired to the country.”

  “Well, she has offered her services and is my first line of defense against the randy bachelors. You, my friends, are the cavalry she will call in if needed.”

  Darby climbed into the waiting hackney with his leather satchel. The driver clicked to the mare, and she pulled away with a snort, proceeding toward the outskirts of Mayfair. It was after midnight, and his man would be waiting at the Guinea.

  It was a small tavern, frequented by the staff of the wealthy. Grooms and footmen relaxed at the end of a long week and complained about their masters, telling secrets about the titled families who paid their wages. He opened the canvas bag and pulled out the homespun brown jacket, frayed neckcloth, and worn boots. Removing his hat and cravat, he leaned back against the worn leather squabs and pulled off his Hessians, donning the drab attire. A few blocks from his destination, he rapped on the roof and his driver stopped. He paid the man and, with a quick word and nod, arranged for the hackney to wait.

  “I should be back within the hour,” Darby said as he handed him a pouch of jingling coins. He’d been using the same driver for the past year. They had come to an understanding. The hackney escorted him and kept mum; the earl paid a week’s wages for a night’s work.

  “Aye, my lord, at yer service,” the old man replied, pulling his hat down over his eyes and leaning back. “I’ll be waitin’ right here.”

  Walking the rest of the way, Darby’s heels clicked along the slick cobblestones of the narrow street as he made his way toward the rendezvous point. Fog crept close to the ground, curling about his boots, obscuring the pavement then slithering away to reveal a puddle or dark outline of something he instinctively knew to sidestep. A cold mist sent a chill through him. It shrouded the buildings, lending the streets a Gothic quality that had Nicholas picking up his pace.

  We’re getting closer, Alice. Your death will not be in vain.

  He thought of the letter, the worn paper with the fateful words she’d left him that night. Even in her turmoil, she’d known her mother was wrong. The evil that possessed the Duke of Colvin must be stopped. And so, she had told him the name of the perpetrator in her final farewell, the name of the perpetrator.

  He stopped in front of the Guinea, the light spilling out onto the wet stones and illuminating two dark forms around the side of the building. Their heads were close as if in secret conversation, and a small parcel passed between them. One of the men glanced up, caught Nicholas’s eye, and scurried down the alley. One of Colvin’s men. Good, that’s why he was here.

  He entered the noisy tavern, the scent of sweat, stale beer, and cheap perfume assailing his nose. A barmaid smiled at him over her tray. He avoided her gaze and quickly moved to a back table where Walters sat with a bumper of ale. A fire blazed in a large hearth along one wall, patrons crowded around it, sharing gossip.

  Some were dressed in fine clothes, displaying their prominence in a household. Others wore homespun garb, workers from the area who cleaned the streets, made deliveries to the kitchens, or performed the city’s necessary menial labor. An occasional bark of laughter or shout of anger could be heard over the steady thrum of voices.

  “Good evening, my lord,” greeted his man with a nod as he stood. Walters waved his mug at the maid, who nodded in understanding. “Seems the duke is moving up in the world of vices.”

  “I saw one of his toadies outside,” Darby said, sitting down at the wood table, carefully balancing himself on the wobbly stool. “Looked as if he were paying for a service.”

  “Indeed, sir. We’ll be heading over to the Rat’s Nest as soon as yer ready.” His ruddy face wore a smile that didn’t quite meet his brown eyes. Walters had been a Bow Street runner before working for the earl. He’d been wrongly accused of bribery when he’d come too close to solving a crime that involved a nobleman and still held a grudge toward certain aristocrats.

  “St. Giles? The gin houses of Covent Garden aren’t keeping him satisfied now?” Darby accepted the mug and took a long pull. “Where in this delightful rookery are we destined?”

  “Seems there an interesting purchase at one of the flash houses.” Walters ran thick fingers through his tangled dark brown curls, tipped with premature gray. “A house that specializes in procuring chimney sweeps.”

  “But Colvin isn’t looking for a boy to sweep his chimney.” Darby’s lip curled in disgust. “Is that the transaction I witnessed outside?”

  “I would assume it is.” Walters winked at the barmaid as she plunked down another bumper. “Thank you, lass.”

  “It seems the old duke kept his son’s depravity in check while he was alive. In the past year, he’s gone from gambling and elegant prostitutes to gin houses. The type known for catering to hard-to-please clients.” Darby drummed his fingers on the glass and took a long pull of his ale. “He’s succumbing to his dark side.”

  “The question is, how far will he sink? The abbess of the last place he patronized refused him entrance last week. Seems he’s getting more violent and not worth the risk.”

  Nicholas had been watching the Duke of Colvin for the last year. A year of spies, of waiting for something that could be used against him. When Colvin’s father had been alive, His Grace had kept a tight rein on his son. The previous duke had known what his heir was about and hired a bodyguard of sorts to accompany his undisciplined son. Keep him out of trouble.

  Trouble. That’s what the old duke had called Alice’s fatal circumstances. A troubling situation. To date, Nicholas had witnessed several women unknowingly saved from Alice’s fate as the expensive attendant had pulled his ward from a compromising scene.

  * * *

  In Darby’s eyes, the bloody bastard and his father had been equally responsible for their part in Alice’s death. And then there was his own role in the whole mess. So Darby, stricken with remorse, had made a vow. He would get justice for the woman who would never know love or a family of her own.

  Patience. The man had been untouchable when his father had been alive. But now he was on his own, no restraining hand, not a soul to tell the wretch “no.” In the past year, Colvin had lost interest in the well-born virgins. He’d gone to the gin houses instead—those known to provide for clients with peculiar tastes—and enjoyed some rough sport with those working women desperate enough for the coin. But his lust for inflicting pain seemed unquenchable.

  Darby tossed down a shilling for the unfinished ale and stood. “Let us venture into the Rat’s Nest. I have a hackney meeting us a few blocks away.”

  “Aye, sir. I’m in the mood to catch me a repugnant little rodent.”

  Chapter Two

  “Cheerfulness, it would appear, is a matter which depends fully as much on the state of things within, as on the state of things without and around us.”


  Charlotte Bronte

  Pendleton Place

  Northern England

  Late October 1819

  Hannah glared at the array of clothes scattered across her rooms. Nothing seemed right, and she had to look perfect. Dresses and jackets spread across the counterpane, hanging from the bedposts, or draped over her dressing table. In the next room, petticoats, stays, and stockings were strewn over chairs and her traveling trunks. One table held shoes, slippers, and boots.

  There would be walks during the day, dances, and rides in Hyde Park. It would be her first extended visit away from home. She could be in London for up to six months, except for the trip home at Christmas and the Twelfth Night celebrations, which her country neighbors still practiced with exuberance.

  She fingered the pale-pink muslin with tiny roses embroidered across the satin ribbon at the waist. The delicate flowers were repeated across the hem and cuffs. Would it make her appear too young? Would she look a total dolt against the backdrop of the elegant and polished beau monde?

  Stop it! she scolded herself. Hannah was known for her poise and self-reliance. Why should her confidence falter over a trip to Town? Because Gideon would be there. Her stomach did a flip, her lips curving into an instantaneous smile. She closed her eyes, and his deep-blue gaze, raven hair, and broad shoulders filled her vision.

  Piffle! She needed to cease daydreaming about the earl. If only she could so easily quit a habit that had become second nature to her—since the day he’d stolen her five-year-old heart.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” whispered Eliza from behind.

  She twirled around to find her sister-in-law with a hand over her mouth, surveying the windstorm that had come upon Hannah’s rooms. “I’m selecting my clothes and having an odious time of it. I need to look sophisticated and show off my best features, yet young enough that I don’t attract any vile old men.”