Dangerous Gentlemen

by Beverley Oakley

  Dangerous Gentlemen

  Beverley Oakley

  Sequel to Her Gilded Prison.

  Shy, self-effacing Henrietta knows her place—in her dazzling older sister’s shadow. She’s a little brown peahen to Araminta’s bird of paradise. But when Hetty mistakenly becomes embroiled in the Regency underworld, the innocent debutante finds herself shockingly compromised by the dashing, dangerous Sir Aubrey, the very gentleman her heart desires. And the man Araminta has in her cold, calculating sights.

  Branded an enemy of the Crown, bitter over the loss of his wife, Sir Aubrey wants only to lose himself in the warm, willing body of the young “prostitute” Hetty. As he tutors her in the art of lovemaking, Aubrey is pleased to find Hetty not only an ardent student, but a bright, witty and charming companion.

  Despite a spoiled Araminta plotting for a marriage offer and a powerful political enemy damaging his reputation, Aubrey may suffer the greatest betrayal at the hands of the little “concubine” who’s managed to breach the stony exterior of his heart.

  A Romantica® historical Regency erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Dangerous Gentlemen

  Beverley Oakley

  Chapter One

  Brushing beetles out of her cleavage as she shrouded herself in the fronds of a concealing potted palm was not how Hetty envisaged making her grand London debut.

  Still, it was better to be hidden by the flamboyant greenery than to be humiliated like a wallflower. She’d prepared herself for such a fate, but being passed over for the last three dances at Lady Knox’s lavish ball had brought home to her how much worse was the reality.

  A painful reality that was going to last another three months before she could return to her quiet, unexciting but familiar home.

  As the orchestra tuned up for another country dance, Hetty watched the slow progress of a ladybird over the bodice of her white sarcenet gown. How much more complementary the little creature’s bold red-and-black coat was to her own lackluster coloring. A debutante was required to wear white and pale shades to reflect her innocence, status and wealth. The ballroom was bursting with such rare prizes, she reflected gloomily as she carefully transferred the ladybird onto a palm frond. Wallflowers like Hetty faced fierce competition and she was not bolstered by her sister Araminta’s kind reassurance that her sizeable dowry would ultimately compensate for her lack of looks.

  Guiltily she watched her chaperone Mrs. Monks pass nearby, an anxious frown turning down the corners of her thin, bloodless mouth. Hetty held her breath. The truth was, she wasn’t hiding only to avoid public humiliation.

  Really, she was here to spy, though spying was the preserve of devious sorts like Araminta.

  Araminta, the bold and beautiful sister who was currently clasping hands with the handsome baronet whose brief kindness toward Hetty at the beginning of the evening had ignited a torrent of never-before-experienced sensations. Unfortunately, his later actions had quashed every hope for the season Hetty had foolishly entertained.

  No, spying from behind a potted palm was as close as a shy, plump debutante like Hetty would ever get to her heart’s desire.

  A little sob escaped her as she gazed upon the well-matched couple. Araminta, as always, was dazzling. Yet for a few moments earlier this evening, dressed for her first ball in her new cream sarcenet with its powder-blue sash, her light-brown hair tumbling in curls from a high topknot at the apex of a center parting, Hetty, too, had felt almost beautiful.

  Then Araminta had swept her aside to admire her own gleaming reflection before the looking glass.

  Indeed, gleaming and self-satisfied were appropriate epithets, and ones Hetty was as inclined to use on the family Siamese cat as her sister. She knew she shouldn’t be uncharitable. Araminta’s first season had ended under a cloud and she should be pleased her sister had caught the eye of a man as seriously handsome and eligible as Sir Aubrey, a baronet who was set to inherit a viscountcy and vast estates in the north.

  But it was hard to rejoice in Araminta’s good fortune when Hetty still felt the pain of her sister’s dismissive, “I suppose you’re up to the mark as much as can be expected”. Hetty should have known better than to ask for an opinion on her appearance.

  Not only had tonight brought home how wanting Hetty was in the eyes of the male contingent, it had highlighted how beneath the notice of dashing Sir Aubrey she was. Yet the evening had started on such a high note when Sir Aubrey had returned her dropped reticule to her with a bow of sweeping chivalry and a smile that had seemed for her alone. Silly girl. He smiled like that at all the girls, of course.

  Still, Hetty never suffered from the blue devils for long and the lively music soon had her tapping her feet, enjoying her seclusion and fascinated by the way the light caught the extraordinary streak of white hair that cut a swath through Sir Aubrey’s dark locks. Araminta, while pointing out the peculiarities of several gentlemen of interest, had told her earlier in the evening that it was a physical trait shared by all the men in his family.

  The foot-tapping stopped abruptly when Hetty saw Araminta stumble, causing Sir Aubrey to tighten his hold.

  Conniving minx, Hetty thought uncharitably, even though being charitable was, she knew, one of her few commendable traits, and if she couldn’t be beautiful she should at least try to be nice.

  Living with Araminta for the past eighteen years, however, had opened her eyes to the fact that vibrant beauties could get away without being nice or charitable, and Araminta was certainly neither. But in all those years, Hetty had not known jealousy.

  The corrosive poison had only started dripping into her veins tonight. Of course, she was used to seeing her sister feted, admired and in continual demand. But it was hard to witness Sir Aubrey’s interest, even though she’d told herself a thousand times it should not come as a surprise that rakish, handsome Sir Aubrey didn’t notice debutantes like plain, plump and awkward Hetty.

  His piercing smile at the beginning of the evening had been an aberration. That had been made very clear when an hour ago he’d accidentally spilled champagne upon her arm yet barely paused to flick a snowy linen handkerchief across her sleeve and offer a lackluster apology before hurrying on.

  Standing on tiptoe to get a better view through the glossy leaves of her concealment, Hetty was relieved to see Sir Aubrey was no longer dancing with Araminta, though it was hardly consoling to see him partnering another beautiful brunette.

  Especially when, in the midst of conversation, he brushed a lock of the young woman’s hair back from her face.

  The intimacy of the gesture, or rather the look upon his face, sent tendrils of pain and pleasure deep into Hetty’s belly, though these hitherto alien bodily experiences turned to fright when a familiar growl warmed her ear at the same time as the speaker delivered her a playful slap upon the rump.

  “Who, may I ask, Hetty dearest, has caught your discerning eye this evening? Tell me so that I might facilitate the joyful union before season’s end. You know I’ve made it my mission to see to your happiness.”

  Hetty whirled ’round, blinking up at her cousin Stephen, unsure whether pity, amusement or—God forbid—scorn would be his response when she offered her almost guilty admission as to the object of her interest.

  To her surprise, it was horror. Horror delivered with surely unnecessary force, given that all of London knew Sir Aubrey Banks was a prime catch. She’d heard him discussed in such terms by more than one designing mama.

  Although, registering Cousin Stephen’s antipathy, Hetty reflected that there had been some caveat about Sir Aubrey’s eligibility whispered in an undertone by her mama’s friend Mrs. Dobson.

  Stephen’s earlier good humor had evaporated and he looked pained. “My dear H
etty, lose your heart to anyone but Sir Aubrey,” he exhorted her. “Under no circumstances can he be a candidate for your affections.” Suspicion laced his next question. “He hasn’t spoken to you, has he?” Stephen put his hands on her shoulders, a troubled crease between his brows. What she’d thought anger was, she now realized, the gravest concern.

  “He’s never looked twice at me, Cousin Stephen, and why would he? I’m in no danger from his advances.” Hetty sought for the word she’d heard whispered in the drawing room in the months preceding her come-out. A word she knew no innocent debutante ought to know. “Is he a philanderer?”

  Stephen returned to his natural height with a look that was part wry amusement, part censure. “No, Sir Aubrey is not a renowned philanderer, but what he is must not concern you.” He became brisk. “Since it would appear you are not taken for the quadrille that is forming, perhaps you’d do me the honor?”

  A passing debutante being hurried along by her chaperone cast Hetty an envious look as Hetty slipped her hand into the crook of her cousin’s arm. Her confidence was returning. Not only was darling Cousin Stephen the most amenable of men, he was extraordinarily handsome. Hetty wondered why, after all these months in London, his eye had not yet been caught by some dashing creature, though she reasoned he’d want to wait the few months until it was known if he’d remain heir to The Grange. That hinged on whether the child soon to be born to Hetty’s mama, Lady Partington, was a boy, in which case the infant would displace Cousin Stephen.

  But if Mama had a girl, it was unlikely at her age she’d have more children and then Cousin Stephen would remain Lord Partington’s heir.

  Hetty hoped that would be the case. If Cousin Stephen became the new viscount, he’d surely be charitable to Hetty during the long, lonely years of spinsterhood that stretched before her.

  A great sense of security enveloped her when, with a brotherly smile, he patted her hand.

  Cousin Stephen had caused quite a stir when he’d first arrived at The Grange a few months earlier, for Araminta had set out with determination to snare the affections of the heir to her ancestral home. She’d lost interest, however, when Cousin Stephen’s future was thrown in doubt.

  Or rather, Stephen had lost interest in Araminta.

  It didn’t matter now. Araminta was determined to make a glittering match, Stephen’s future would remain unknown for some months and Hetty looked set to finish her first season in glorious ignominy, perhaps standing up to dance only when Cousin Stephen took pity on her.

  As Hetty took her place beside Stephen, she sent her sister, who was partnering an aging and apparently gout-ridden peer, as smug a look as she dared, under the circumstances. The ballroom was crowded and Araminta, who was adept at swift revenge, would understand Hetty’s inference. Araminta was the queen of set-downs and Hetty had to assert herself when she could.

  She was amused and a little relieved when her sister puckered her full mouth in mock adoration of the poor specimen beside her. If Araminta was able to make a joke of it, perhaps her good humor would last through the evening and she’d be less inclined to harp upon Hetty’s lack of success.

  Perhaps Hetty might even find she’d enjoyed herself by the end of the evening too. It was, after all, the grandest occasion she’d ever attended. Hundreds of beeswax candles cast a lustrous glow upon the assembled finery and the music and the food were of the highest quality.

  As they waited to perform their steps, Hetty murmured, “You have not said, Cousin Stephen, why I should be wary of Sir Aubrey. If you have any knowledge of young ladies, you’d know your cautions are likely to have the opposite effect to that desired. Surely any designing mama would be perfectly delighted to see her daughter waltz off with such a handsome, rich gentleman of consequence?”

  Stephen linked elbows with her for the next dance sequence, his lips set in a grim line. “This is no time for such a discussion, Hetty. Sir Aubrey is not the gentleman he presents to the rest of the world. Pray don’t concern yourself with a scoundrel like him when there’s a roomful of eligible young men who’d be only too delighted to further their acquaintance with you.”

  This was hardly consolation, Hetty reflected. Good-natured Stephen had grown increasingly serious since taking up his position in the Foreign Office, though he clearly enjoyed the new responsibilities he’d assumed with the backing of his cousin, Hetty’s father. Viscount Partington was obviously fond of Stephen and had pulled strings to secure a position he believed would engage Stephen’s mind if he were to be ousted as heir.

  “A scoundrel?” Hetty scanned the crowd for another glimpse of the gentleman who’d grown even more fascinating since Stephen’s strictures. With an unexpected pang, she found him partnering exactly the kind of bold and strikingly pretty young lady she would expect. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, lips pressed together almost grimly until his features were suddenly reordered by a moment’s animation, his dark-brown eyes lighting up and his lips curving to reveal good, strong teeth. When he brushed his hand across his elegantly chiseled sideburns to rake back his springy dark hair, cut short on the sides and worn longer and slightly brushed forward on top, Hetty shivered, completely in thrall.

  Before she’d come to London, the only men she’d known were country squires and their uninspiring sons and…Cousin Edgar.

  With sadness, she remembered her old playmate, kind but doltish Edgar, who’d died in a boating accident some months before. She’d believed the affection had been mutual until Araminta had lured him away with no more than the crook of her little finger.

  “Surely I’m allowed to cast my gaze upon him?” She spoke softly and was ashamed at the longing in her voice as she looked up into her cousin’s pitying eyes.

  Stephen smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I can’t stop you but perhaps if I entrust you with a great secret—one I would reveal to no one else—it might temper your adolescent fantasies.” With a surreptitious glance at their neighbors waiting, like them, to perform their steps, he put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Sir Aubrey is a suspected Spencean…a traitor to king and crown. If he’s convicted, you know what penalty that carries.”

  Instead of rewarding this damning statement with the no-doubt horror expected, Hetty squared her shoulders. “Then why is he not awaiting trial?”

  “Securing evidence is my job.” Stephen looked uncomfortable. “If that’s not sufficient to damn him in your eyes, then I must speak with a frankness I would ordinarily not employ when addressing an innocent debutante.”

  “Really, Cousin Stephen, you’re sounding more and more like some pompous and important man of government than my cousin. I have no delicate sensibilities. I simply want to know how an apparently persona non grata—if that’s the right term—can be allowed to rub shoulders with the haute ton and dance with…innocent debutantes like me. Surely if his reputation is so fearful, he’d have been forcibly removed by the very supercilious butler who greeted us?”

  Stephen looked unimpressed. Lowering his head, he muttered, “Don’t shriek, then, Hetty, when I tell you that Sir Aubrey was married to a woman who became so fearful of him she ran away to seek refuge with her cousin, the new Viscount Debenham, as he’s become known since his recent inheritance.”

  He gripped Hetty more tightly as he danced her down the room beneath an arch of fellow dancers’ arms, emerging to add, “When Sir Aubrey went after his wife, Lady Margaret, she took her own life, leaving a letter outlining the full extent of Sir Aubrey’s evil associations and crimes.”

  “Oh.” Hetty swallowed. This was not at all what she’d expected. Distracted, she waited in line for the next part of the dance, her gaze returning to the dangerous gentleman who so fascinated her and who was now partnering his lovely consort beneath the arches. “Then why was the letter not sufficient to condemn him?”

  Another look of discomfort flitted across Stephen’s face. He cleared his throat. “It has gone missing. Lord Debenham, or Mr. George Carruthers as he was formerly, in
formed Foreign Office of the contents of his cousin’s letter. He’d found it clutched in the late Lady Margaret’s hand but said that after leaving the room to seek assistance, the letter had disappeared when he returned. He believes it was stolen by a retainer, perhaps ignorant of its importance, who planned to gain by it through blackmail.”

  Shaken, Hetty clasped Stephen’s hand for the final steps of the dance. “And has that happened? Has he been blackmailed? When did Lady Margaret die?”

  “Eighteen months ago. And no, to date there has been no sign of the letter.”

  Hetty smiled but the force of Stephen’s response tempered her smugness.

  “Keep your distance, Hetty. I’ve told you only what I believe appropriate for a girl of your delicacy, but there’s more.” Coming up from his bow at the conclusion of the dance, he added, “Those who fall foul of Sir Aubrey have not all lived to tell the tale.”

  * * * * *

  A traitor. The words chased themselves around Hetty’s head as Stephen led her toward the lackluster Mrs. Monks, a youngish widow and, like Hetty, not possessed of the kinds of qualities likely to inspire the passion Lady Margaret clearly had inspired in her male admirers.

  So when Araminta sidled up to her sister to mention in her usual patronizing manner that Hetty had what appeared to be a poppy seed between her teeth, Hetty was glad of the excuse to scuttle away to the sanctuary afforded by her friendly, luxuriant potted palm to pick at the elusive poppy seed—which she soon suspected never existed. Resuming her earlier occupation, she gazed from amidst the greenery upon Sir Aubrey, in earnest discussion with two gentlemen Cousin Stephen had pointed out as government ministers.

  How handsome and urbane he looked; how charming his manner. The thrill that curdled in her lower belly was followed by suspicion as she reviewed Stephen’s possible motives for damning his character.

  Did he fear the man might break her heart? That Hetty was so bird-witted, painting him black would make inevitable rejection easier for her?