Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  He frowned.

  “I’ll let you come up with that part, then. Simply find a way to sound successful in investing, and I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you.”

  “Yes, missus. You leave it to me.”

  *

  Michael couldn’t believe he’d gone from his carefree existence to worrying about saving the family estate in a week. After a second meeting with his father and the earl’s banker, as well as a private meeting with his own banker, Michael was well and truly committed to not ending up as a threadbare, former nobleman, living in a country cottage with a single maid and boiled potatoes for every meal.

  Not to mention having his mother and siblings share the same cottage.

  He was letting his imagination run wild with how far he could fall, but at least those thoughts inspired him to action. Nevertheless, he had no idea how the hell he was supposed to grow their accounts. He needed help.

  Someone at White’s would put him on to the right person, perhaps a way to invest in the railways.

  As he approached the inconspicuous set of doors, another man was exiting and plowed into him.

  In a flurry of apologies, Michael realized what he was helping the individual pick up from the pavement were stock reports.

  Fate had stepped in. Hopefully, the man was better with investing than maneuvering the doors and streets of London.

  In very short order, he’d turned him around, and they were seated in the room for members’ guests.

  “Should I be concerned you don’t have a membership here?” Michael asked Mr. Brunnel, watching the stranger push his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  The man shrugged, appearing unconcerned. “I know so many here, I come and go as I please without having to pay the yearly dues. Smart of me, don’t you think?”

  Michael nodded, supposing it was how the rich stayed rich.

  “Besides, if I feel like a little social outing, I go to Crocky’s. The Shark has enough excitement at his establishment. Better food, too.”

  Michael couldn’t argue with that. Crockford’s gaming hall was elegant and served the finest in French cuisine.

  “You are not titled, then?”

  “No,” the man was quick to offer with honesty and a grin. Again, he fiddled with his glasses.

  “Nor are you a businessman, Mr. Brunnel?”

  “True enough. I have neither shop nor trade. I make my money on the market, the only type of trade I’m interested in. I’ve already spent years figuring out marketable securities, and it’s the quickest way to earn—or lose—a fortune.”

  “And you can help me?”

  Brunnel nodded. “That’s what I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” The man pushed his glasses up his nose, then removed them entirely and put them in his pocket.

  “Yes,” Michael persisted. “If you’ve made a fortune and can continue to make more, why do you work for others?”

  The man hesitated. “You’re asking why I do what I do?”

  “Precisely.” If Brunnel hesitated a moment longer, Michael would show him the door.

  “It’s entertaining,” Brunnel said, offering a large smile.

  “Really?” Michael wondered at his answer.

  “Yes, rather like some men who spend their time at the races or hunting or at a pugilist club. I’d rather be dealing with stocks, watching them rise and fall. It’s exciting to predict and then see your predictions play out. As you surmised, I’m not titled, but I wield a lot of power by handling gentlemen’s accounts.”

  Michael nodded and sipped his drink. “This offers you amusement, then.”

  “More than that. I’ve made a lot and intend to make more. If I help you, then I get some of your profit as well.”

  That made perfect sense. “How do we start?”

  Brunnel frowned. “Ask me how I made my money.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Brunnel cocked his head. “I thought you might want to know.”

  “All right, seeing as how you want to tell me.”

  The man grinned again. “I read the newspapers, domestic and foreign. I see trends. I also read the parliamentary notes and upcoming acts and bills. All of this lets me know what’s going to be big. When I realized we were going to lay telegraph cables across the channel to the froggies, I invested in the raw materials and the know-how.”

  Michael was impressed.

  “I wouldn’t have the head for it,” he confessed. “You’ll just tell me what to invest in, correct?”

  “Exactly so, my lord. In fact, I’ll tell you, then you approve, and then I pop over to the exchange and place the order.”

  “And there are short-term returns? I need to see things happen within months or even less to begin with.”

  “Certainly. How else could I prove myself?”

  “Indeed. And how much will your advice cost me?” Michael braced himself.

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Ridiculous! It’s my money and my risk. I’ll offer you ten percent. Anything else is outrageous usury! Robbery even.”

  “Hardly that,” Brunnel said, looking unruffled. “How about we settle on eighteen?”

  “Hm, that seems as though it would offer you plenty of the amusement you seek.”

  “It will suffice,” Brunnel agreed. “Remember though. You win, we win together. You lose, you lose alone.”

  Despite the harsh sound of the man’s statement, Michael didn’t see how he had any choice. “Then let’s start winning, shall we?”

  “Exactly so, my lord,” the man said again, and they shook on it.

  After his new business partner left, Michael considered him. Turning the man’s card over in his hands, he wondered if he should investigate Brunnel a little. Yet, he’d all but promised to turn him a profit in a month. If he did, then Michael would trust him with his family’s future. If he didn’t, he’d beat the tar out of him for good measure and walk away.

  It also put him of the mind to go to Crocky’s for a little amusement of his own before he visited his latest paramour, a widow residing in Belgrave Square. To that end, a few hours later, after his valet had spruced him up, Michael appeared at the luxurious Crockford’s on St. James’s Street.

  In minutes, he was surrounded by the cream of British aristocracy, young men gambling fortunes in a blink of an eye. Michael swallowed. A few weeks ago, he would have joined them in wagering too much and not giving a fig. Now, he intended to watch more than play, spend his money on a delicious meal and some fine imported brandy. The women here were not for sale but were lovely, nonetheless, so he passed a pleasant few hours until it was time to see his lady friend.

  He’d even won a few hands of piquet.

  Feeling uplifted by everything he’d accomplished in one day, Michael fairly sprung aboard his carriage for the ten-minute ride around the north side of Green Park, past Buckingham Palace, to the widow’s house.

  Every home at Belgrave Square was nicer than his own residence, a brick townhouse on Brook Street. This fact didn’t bother him a bit. Lady Elizabeth Pepperton was generous with her home, her food, her body, and especially her brandy. Her husband having succumbed two years prior to the fatal disease of old age, this young widow enjoyed the fruits of her short marriage to an aged man.

  One evening at a private dinner, Michael had congratulated her on earning such a juicy retirement in the only way open to a woman. They’d gone home together that very night and had spent many enjoyable evenings during the past six months.

  They would never marry. His income was insufficient to keep her, and she could never be faithful in any case. She’d admitted as much. With such a solid understanding, he could enjoy her thoroughly for as long as they suited.

  Disembarking from his carriage, he was about to scale the three shallow steps to her darkly varnished door and brass knocker when he heard a woman cry out in distress.

  Glancing to his right, he saw a vision of golden tresses wearing an elegant purpl
e gown with a matching pelisse, both were the deep, rich color of a woman who’d left her debutante pastel years behind her.

  Another woman, clearly a nanny, held a youngster by one hand and a shopping bag in the other. The packages strewn on the pavement were obviously the cause of the lady’s distress. Yet her carriage was already pulling away, perhaps heading for the stables in the alley behind.

  Trotting the few yards between them, he was bending at the feet of the lady, collecting her packages, even before she could begin to do so.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid I had piled them too high, and clearly, I am no architect,” she said to his bowed head, her voice having an inviting, lilting quality.

  When he had gathered everything in his arms, including a small carpet runner wrapped in brown paper, he looked up.

  The expression on her face changed instantly from smiling, warm, and friendly to one of shock. Indeed, shock was the only thing Michael could think of which would cause her smile to falter and disappear and her creamy complexion to become chalk-white.

  Perhaps she’d expected someone else, her husband even, and was surprised beyond all reason by a stranger.

  “I hope nothing is damaged,” he said.

  She merely stared at him with clear blue eyes, taking his measure.

  He could not in good conscience pile all the parcels back into her slender arms.

  “May I carry them into your home for you?” he offered.

  “No,” she snapped, finally coming out of her daze.

  Even her tone had changed remarkably from the softer greeting.

  She started to grab them from him, dropping some and becoming more agitated.

  “Please, I mean no harm,” Michael assured her. “I will simply get them into your front hall. Where is your butler? Why did your footman not stop and help?”

  She glared at him, not answering. Walking around him, she reached her front door and thrust it open, tossing the packages she held inside, presumably onto the floor, before returning to retrieve the rest from him.

  He bent and picked up another dropped bundle, hoping it was a large bag of tea or a cushion, for anything else would be damaged beyond repair by the rough handling.

  Handing it to her, his gloved fingers touched hers. He watched, fascinated, as she froze, staring where they both held the package.

  Had she stopped breathing?

  “I believe you should have more household help.”

  Meeting his gaze, her eyes were glittering with… anger?

  “I believe it is none of your business. Nanny Finn,” she said, without looking away, “please take Harry inside.”

  He glanced past the beauty to watch the other two go up the steps. At the door, the little boy looked back at him with large amber eyes and a curious smile.

  Lifting his hand, Michael gave him a wave, which he returned.

  The lady gasped again. Snatching the bundle to her chest, she turned and followed them inside.

  “You are most welcome,” he called after her as the front door closed with a bang.

  Hmm, what do you make of that? A hell of a feisty female. He wouldn’t want to be her husband. Except she had a delectable figure and pretty, rosy lips.

  For all he knew, though, she was dull as mud and a harsh scold. In which case, no luscious curves and pretty blonde tresses would make her desirable.

  In a minute, he was in his mistress’s parlor seated on her sofa, and her maid was pouring them each a glass of madeira. As soon as the servant left, Elizabeth locked the door and drew the drapes.

  Just those two actions stirred his loins, anticipating what would follow. She joined him on the plush velvet seat.

  “What do you know of your neighbors?” he asked.

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “The family at number twenty-seven,” he clarified.

  “Oh, Mrs. St. Ange. She recently moved here with her boy. I haven’t had a chance to meet her yet. How do you know her?”

  “I don’t. Her packages were all over the sidewalk, and I was kind enough to help her. Odd woman, I thought.”

  “Really?” She’d started to run her hand along his thigh. “How so?”

  “Seemed both furious at me and petrified, too.”

  Draping his arm around her, he drew her close, not minding at all when her hand brushed the buttons of his pants.

  “What of her husband? Is he anybody?”

  “No one at all, apparently, for he is dead. She is a widow.”

  His interest perked, even though he knew himself a scoundrel. Here he was, holding a lush female in his hands, her fingers even then unfastening the fall of his trousers, yet he was fancying his chances with the sharp-tongued golden lady two doors down.

  Setting his glass on the table beside him, he turned fully to his fine widow, dragging her gown up her long legs at the same time as he bent low to kiss the soft skin of her neck. As usual, the only thing missing was the delicious floral scent that had enchanted him three years earlier on the skin of a goddess.

  However, as his shaft sprung free and he drew Elizabeth’s gown up to her hips to find she had nothing on underneath, Michael had to admit a willing woman with no expectations was a rather fine consolation.

  Chapter Four

  What cruel coincidence had put Lord Vile literally on her doorstep?

  Ada asked herself this as she turned the page while reading a fairy tale to her darling boy, and she wondered again while eating alone before preparing for bed and a good book of her own.

  Alder’s townhouse, as Ada had discovered before returning to London, was over a mile away on the east side of Hyde Park so he hadn’t simply been happening by. Obviously, he was on the square to pay a visit to his current paramour, who lived a mere two doors down in the same terrace of homes.

  Of course, she should have expected to run into him—in fact, that was the point of returning to Town. It was simply the utter surprise Ada found difficult to get over.

  To have been caught unawares and off guard—it had been a blow to the calm and tough exterior she’d crafted.

  Would it have made a difference had she some warning before seeing him? She wasn’t at all sure any prior notice would have helped quell the myriad of emotions which had assaulted her upon seeing his face. She only wished she hadn’t let her temper—and the instantaneous flood of rage—get the better of her. He must have thought her either half mad or a shrew, at the very least.

  Alder looked the same. Somehow, his unchanged appearance had left her disconcerted since she was certain she no longer looked to be the same wide-eyed innocent who had blundered to her own ruin.

  If she’d had any doubt of this, it was put to rest when he obviously hadn’t recognized her. Of course, Vile not remembering her was due to a variety of reasons, some unpleasant to consider. The night it happened, the garden had been dimly lit, he’d looked at her face for only a short period before he was pushing her onto her back as most of his interest had been beneath her skirts, and he’d walked away so quickly, there hadn’t been time for her to make any kind of impression. Besides, he had a flask of alcohol, and was thus bleary-eyed and foggy-brained.

  In any case, she was so forgettable, that horrid night, he hadn’t recognized her from earlier the same evening, a mere few hours before.

  Moreover, from the rumors, Lord Vile had so many women in the interim years even if she’d had three eyes, he was just as likely to have forgotten her.

  As she sank into her pillows, book open on her lap, Ada could admit to herself a smidgen of gall. Her pride was well and truly pricked. Yet how disastrous would it have been if he had remembered her! For her plans to work, Lord Vile couldn’t think upon the young lady he’d enjoyed and left with no thought to the consequences.

  No, she didn’t want him to recall anything about the previous Miss Ellis, when as the widow St. Ange, she would make him fall for her and become absolutely devoted, and then she would cut out his black heart.

  St
ill, she wished she hadn’t encountered him before she was ready, as it had left her a little uncertain. Never mind. Somehow, she would use it to her advantage.

  Opening her copy of Shakespeare’s Othello, she gazed at the wood-engraved illustrations, considering how one man could be so easily fooled by another into believing something with all his heart.

  *

  Michael found himself thinking about the fair-haired woman on Belgrave Square. Too much, in fact, particularly when he was supposed to be focusing on the future of the earldom.

  Today, he was meeting Mr. Brunnel and finding out precisely what his first investment would be.

  “Guano!” the man said with enthusiasm.

  “Guano?” Michael repeated. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You don’t know what it is? Is that the problem?” Brunnel asked.

  “Of course I know what it is. Bat manure,” Michael practically growled the words.

  This was how he was going to save the Alder name? With the feces from a flying mouse? After a brief pause, he asked, “What are you playing at?”

  “Not bat guano, my lord. Seabird guano. Peruvian, to be precise. You want a quick return, don’t you, to prove I know what I’m doing? This isn’t a huge-profit market, like silk, for instance, but it will give you results in weeks.”

  “Why on earth do we want bird dung from Peru or anywhere else?”

  “It’s presently the finest fertilizer known to mankind. Rich in nitrate. Hundreds of ships are pulling up to the southern coast of Peru, not just from Britain, but from Germany and America, too.”

  Michael shook his head.

  Clive Brunnel frowned. “You don’t want to invest in this?”

  “Oh, no, I do. I’m simply surprised. I’m truly starting at the bottom, in the actual dung heap.”

  They shared a laugh. “Indeed, you are.”

  In a very short time, Michael had signed a note for the requested amount, and their transaction was complete.

  “May I tell anyone else about this?” If the man was fleecing him, he would want it kept quiet.

  Brunnel shrugged. “Tell whomever you like. Let your friends in on the stock tip and they’ll thank you in a few weeks.”