Falling for the Viscount
Book VI of The Seven Curses of London Series
A Victorian Romance
Lana Williams
Falling for the Viscount
ByLana Williams
A reckless lady.
A reluctant viscount.
What will they risk for love?
Spencer Campbell, Viscount Rutland, keeps the world at arm’s length by using his analytical skills for British Intelligence. But when he takes his first field mission to stop one of London’s worst criminals, he realizes the work is far from black and white. Especially when he comes upon a lady he knows far too well in the middle of his assignment.
Dalia Fairchild is appalled to discover her maid is being lured into a life of prostitution. She does all in her power to stop her, even if that means putting herself at risk. The more Dalia learns about the lives of fallen women, the more determined she is to aid them. Crossing paths with Viscount Rutland during her quest causes her to see him in a new light. The maddening boy she used to know is now a handsome man with a dry wit and heated kisses that make her heart stutter.
Dalia’s recklessness drives Spencer crazed, but her genuine concern for the less fortunate has him taking a second look at the lady, as do her big blue eyes and lithe curves. She is not who he thought, and her passion for life—for him—nearly undoes him.
Dalia knows falling for the viscount would be a terrible mistake. Spencer lives by rules she rarely considers. But when the villain they fight puts their lives in jeopardy, both must decide what they’re willing to risk for love.
Table of Contents
Other Books in the Series
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Other Books by the Author
Copyright
Other books in The Seven Curses of London series:
TRUSTING THE WOLFE, a novella, Book .5
LOVING THE HAWKE, Book 1
CHARMING THE SCHOLAR, Book 2
RESCUING THE EARL, Book 3
DANCING UNDER THE MISTLETOE, Book 4, a Novella
TEMPTING THE SCOUNDREL, Book 5, a Novella
ROMANCING THE ROGUE, a Regency prequel to Tempting the Scoundrel
DARING THE DUKE, Book 7, Coming Soon
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Prologue
Yardford House, Outside of London, 1859
Spencer Campbell straightened to the full height of his ten-year-old frame, confident with the knowledge that right was on his side. It was the only thing he had on his side in his young life, and he gripped it tightly.
“You may not take the rabbit inside,” he stated clearly and loudly so she couldn’t claim she hadn’t understood him at a later date.
The young girl whom he addressed shoved a wayward strand of blonde hair from her eyes with a filthy hand to better glare at him. “I’m taking him in.”
“No, you are not.” He scowled, realizing this verbal sparring could go on for days. Dalia Fairchild might be smaller and younger, but when she set her mind on something, very little stopped her. “I am older, and this is my house. You must do as I say.”
“You are older by only three years, and this is your family’s house, not yours.” She stuck out her tongue at him. Dalia’s family often visited their country estate during the summer as Mrs. Fairchild and his mother were, unfortunately, dear friends.
Spencer found Dalia’s visits vexing since he was expected to keep her out of trouble. It was an impossible task. Dalia was nothing like her sisters, who preferred to remain in the nursery doing things girls were supposed to do, like drawing and practicing their letters.
But not Dalia.
Lucky for him, the rabbit in question struggled from her grasp and bounded away, ending the argument.
“No!” Dalia cried. She turned to him and placed her fisted hands on her hips. “Spencer Campbell, you ruin everything.”
“Yes, I’m well aware.” He turned away from the anger in her big, blue, accusing eyes to hide how much her words stung. He’d been told that more times than he could count by his older brother, who was five years his senior.
The worst part was when Edward said as much in front of their father. The old man would smile, the glint in his eye suggesting he couldn’t agree more. Spencer was the spare heir and as different from them as oil and water. He was an outsider in his own family.
Edward was the image of their father, both in appearance and personality. Charmingly reckless.
He drove Spencer mad.
Nearly as mad as Dalia did.
“Dalia? Where have you gotten to?” Letitia, Dalia’s eldest sister, called from the gardens.
Spencer sighed in relief. At least he wouldn’t need to attempt to convince her to clean the once white dress she wore that was now covered in dirt before returning inside. That task would be her sister’s.
Not bothering to respond to Letitia’s call, Dalia glared at Spencer. “One day, you’ll be sorry you are always so mean to me.”
“And you’ll be sorry you were so contrary. At least one can hope.” He turned away without a backward glance.
~*~
Yardford House, 1865
Dalia Fairchild glared at the bane of her existence—Spencer Campbell. Never mind that he had grown quite tall in the past year. Or that his shoulders had become so broad. Or that something about his now deep voice made her shift uncomfortably.
“Spencer Campbell, you ruin everything.”
“Yes, yes. You’ve said that before.” He waved his hand in dismissal, which only irritated her more.
“Then why do you continue to do so?” She’d been so close to riding the beautiful black stallion his father, the Earl of Yardford, had purchased a few weeks ago. The horse was magnificent. Dalia had been attempting to mount the steed when Spencer had stopped her.
This wasn’t the first time—and she feared it wouldn’t be the last—that she’d cursed him for being such a killjoy.
“How can you not want to ride him?” Dalia asked as she stroked the white blaze that ran down the middle of the stallion’s head. “He’s glorious. Can you imagine his speed? The wind in your hair? The power of his body beneath yours?”
Dalia turned to look at Spencer, dismissing the glittering look in his eyes as anger. At her. Because that was how he always looked. She’d thought now that she was thirteen and nearly a woman of the world, things between them would be different. She was beginning to believe it would never change.
“I can also imagine my father’s wrath when he learns of it.” He shook his head. “Not worth the consequences.”
“Pfft.” She shook her head. “What’s the worst he would do?”
That couldn’t be a shudder that passed through Spencer’s tall frame, could it?
“Let us just say it wouldn’t be pleasant.”
His relationship with his father and brother was much different from hers with her family. Though hers was far less than perfect, she didn’t
think she’d care to exchange it for his.
“As you grow more mature,” he said, his condescending tone causing her to roll her eyes, “you’ll learn the advantages of conforming to rules. After all, they’re given to us for a reason.”
“You mean forced upon us.” She turned to face him in full. “I hope one day, you’ll realize there is more to life than rules.” With that, she turned on her heel and left him behind, wishing he hadn’t grown so handsome.
Chapter One
“It should incline us to a merciful consideration of the fallen-woman when we reflect on the monotony of misery her existence is.”
~The Seven Curses of London
IV. Fallen Women
By James Greenwood, 1869
London, England, May 1871
Dalia Fairchild kept her focus on the sauntering woman ahead of her—anything to ignore the fear curling tight in her belly. Strolling through the East End was far more unnerving than she’d expected, even with Jack, the new footman, directly behind her.
When Ruth, her maid for the past five years, had mentioned she was coming to this area on her half-day, Dalia had been appalled. Why would Ruth choose to spend her precious few hours away from work here?
Upon further questioning, Ruth finally admitted she was accompanying her cousin on a lark to the Argyll Rooms, an entertainment venue. Dalia knew better. She’d recognized the signs of discontent in Ruth over the past few months. Perhaps because those same signs were visible in her reflection of late. Something was afoot, and Dalia had been determined to find out the truth before Ruth ended up in trouble.
Ruth’s cousin, Betty, was several years older and far too adventurous for her own good based on the antics Ruth had shared over the years. The woman acted on impulse—another trait to which Dalia could relate.
Following Ruth and Betty this afternoon was a fine example of Dalia’s impulsiveness. It had seemed a good idea earlier. Not so much now. She felt completely out of her element here despite Jack following along.
As the middle child in a family of five daughters, Dalia was protective of her younger sisters and that feeling extended to Ruth. The woman knew little of the world, not that Dalia knew much more, but she had a suspicious streak Ruth lacked. Dalia supposed that was one thing for which she could thank her sisters.
Passersby jostled her, a surprise in itself as people on Regent Street didn’t do such things. She clutched her reticule with both hands, holding it before her as she followed a short distance behind the two women. Would it be better to lift her chin and feign confidence on these mean streets? Or did she keep her eyes down and try to draw as little notice as possible?
The weight of someone’s stare caught her notice, and she glanced over to find a rough-looking man in a brown suit who leaned against a building, watching her with interest. He smiled, making her worry flare higher. Wasn’t Ruth frightened by what she saw, or had she even noticed the potential threats all around?
The man pushed away from the building and strode boldly forward to walk at Dalia’s side. “What’s a pretty thing like ye doin’ here all alone?”
Dalia’s nose twitched as the scent of sour sweat and onions wafted toward her. “I’m not alone.” That was exactly what she intended to tell her mother if she were caught on this outing. When the man glanced around and raised a brow, she added, “My footman is just behind me.”
“A footman, is he?” He studied Jack’s plain clothing, gave him a nod, then winked at her with a knowing smile. “Sure, he is. What’s yer name?”
Shock seeped through her. She’d never expected to be accosted in broad daylight. Perhaps accosted was a harsh word, but that was how she felt. What could she say to the man to convince him to leave her alone?
Apparently, her silence angered him. He stepped directly into her path, forcing her to stop. “I’m tryin’ to be friendly here.”
Annoyance tamped down her fear. Was this so different from the subtler antics played out in a ballroom?
“Miss?” Jack asked.
She ignored the nervous footman’s offer of assistance to lift her chin and gave the stranger a cold glare that had frozen more than one unwanted suitor. “I am not in need of friends at the moment. Step aside and allow me to pass.”
The man backed away with a scowl, and Dalia continued on her way, relief easing the tight band around her chest. She should’ve brought a more experienced footman with her, but Jack was new and therefore still biddable, a quality she appreciated.
Even more important was his silence as the fewer people who knew of this venture into the East End, the better. The chance of him telling her mother or father was nearly nonexistent.
She studied the people ahead, hoping she hadn’t lost Ruth and Betty. Quickening her step, she caught sight of the maid once again. Ruth would be appalled if she knew Dalia followed her. She’d never want to place Dalia in danger or get her in trouble.
But the maid left her no choice. The woman wouldn’t listen to reason about her cousin and the danger she represented.
Dalia knew the truth—Betty was a fallen woman. A prostitute.
Ruth seemed determined to believe her cousin had many beaus and lived a glamorous life. But Dalia had drawn her own conclusions after listening to her eldest sister, Lettie, and reading The Seven Curses of London, a book detailing the worst problems plaguing the city. Fallen women of all sorts were described in the fourth section of the book. Dalia was certain Betty wanted Ruth to join her in that life.
After numerous conversations, Ruth had finally confessed that Betty was taking her to the Argyll Rooms in Great Windmill Street. The establishment offered refreshments and dancing as well as the opportunity to meet some “stylish gents who knew how to treat a girl right.”
Dalia scoffed at the notion. The author of the Seven Curses book stated that while the place offered musical entertainment and dancing along with refreshments, it also served as a place for men to hire women of a certain vocation. Apparently, the authorities didn’t make a fuss about the establishment as they felt it was better than having the prostitutes roam the streets. She shook her head. As if that made any sense.
The attitude of the law regarding fallen women was out of her influence. She only hoped to convince Ruth what a life of prostitution would be like based upon Dalia’s limited knowledge. But in order to do so, she needed to see what Ruth saw so she could reveal the truth.
Great Windmill Street was just ahead. Dalia hurried along with Jack in tow, hoping to stay close behind the two women. Columns lined the front of the two-story stone building on the lower floor secured with decorative wrought-iron gates. Tall windows rounded at the top added to its prestige. Overall, it looked like a fine establishment—how deceiving.
Ruth stared up at the building, an excited smile on her face. That was exactly the sort of reaction Dalia wanted to note so she might counter it when she and Ruth returned home.
While Dalia realized life as a maid was not easy, earning a wage as a prostitute would be impossible, regardless of what Betty said. Unfortunately, thus far, she hadn’t been able to convince Ruth that a such a life would be unbearable.
Dalia gave Jack the money for their tickets then waited impatiently to gain admittance. They soon managed to follow Betty and Ruth inside without being seen. The pair continued up the stairs to the upper gallery, but Dalia paused to peruse the setting.
A quartet played music on the lower level where several couples danced. She swallowed hard against her nerves as she glanced about, surprised to see all manner of people there, including well-dressed dandies, working men, and everyone in between. To her relief, several other young ladies were in attendance. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as out of place here as she’d feared.
Yet as she watched more closely, she recognized the desperate looks and false smiles the women gave the men who strolled by. Those were the same expressions a few wallflowers wore at balls. No doubt the women sought assignations of one form or another.
Some of the men
watched the women hungrily while others viewed them with amusement. The latter appeared to be in attendance for entertainment purposes. She couldn’t blame them as the crowd enthralled her as well.
Yet almost immediately she realized she was one of those being judged. Uncomfortable with the looks sent her way, she mounted the stairs to follow Ruth, glancing behind her to make certain Jack followed. Surely if she remained only a few minutes, she’d learn enough to convince Ruth of the treachery of this path with no one the wiser of how she’d spent her afternoon.
“Why don’t you wait here,” she advised Jack once they reached the upper level. “I’ll take a turn around this gallery, and then we’ll return home.”
Jack nodded then shifted to stand against the wall.
Dalia slowly made her way through the crowd, searching for Ruth and Betty.
“Miss Fairchild? Is that you?”
Dalia’s stomach dropped at the familiar male voice. Viscount Rutland? At the Argyll Rooms? Surely not.
She slowly turned to find him standing before her, a hint of disapproval etched on his face. It seemed to be a perpetual expression for the man, at least when he looked at her.
Of all people...
In all places...
Why did it have to be Spencer?
“Rutland. How...surprising to see you here.”
Something about his stern countenance brought out the worst in her. Even now, she bristled at his regard, never mind that she knew all too well she shouldn’t be anywhere near this place.
With dark hair clipped short, black brows with only a hint of an arch over compelling hazel eyes in a lean, clean-shaven face framed by long, black lashes, the man was too handsome for his own good. He had an aloofness about him that made conversation awkward. Or perhaps that was caused by the air of superiority that hovered over him.
He rarely smiled. Granted, it was a good thing he didn’t walk around doing so all the time or she’d be no different than the simpering debutantes that fell at his feet at the balls and parties he occasionally attended.
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