The Notorious Scoundrel
Alexandra Benedict
To Tommy
Contents
The Hawkins Family Tree
Chapter 1
“I think he wants to stab us, Eddie.”
Chapter 2
Amy Peel sat on the cushioned stool and scrubbed her…
Chapter 3
He opened his eyes.
Chapter 4
The Westminster Bridge was swarming with Sunday afternoon merrymakers, all…
Chapter 5
Amy was seated at the dressing table, combing her hair.
Chapter 6
Amy danced under the brilliant white limelight. She performed the…
Chapter 7
“The Duchess of Wembury?”
Chapter 8
“Here it is!”
Chapter 9
It was breathtaking.
Chapter 10
Edmund pressed his back against the door and folded his…
Chapter 11
Amy stood beside the tall window, listening to the heavy…
Chapter 12
Amy was alone in the dining parlor with an assortment…
Chapter 13
“You don’t belong here, mate.”
Chapter 14
At breakfast the next morning, Edmund gathered a portion of…
Chapter 15
“If you dance with a gentleman at a ball, then…
Chapter 16
There was a glamorous assortment of high society guests. Floral…
Chapter 17
Amy traveled through the rose-paneled passageway, making her way toward…
Chapter 18
Edmund’s horse pranced about the crowded Hyde Park trail. It…
Chapter 19
Edmund walked the horse toward the rear of the town…
Chapter 20
Amy skulked through the shrubbery. She parted the foliage and…
Chapter 21
The low candlelight, the soft furnishings ensnared the senses. It…
Chapter 22
The distant clock tower chimed the hour of midnight. Edmund…
Chapter 23
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight…
Chapter 24
During the wedding luncheon, Amy sat at the head of…
Chapter 25
Amy eyed the large bed through the looking glass. In…
Chapter 26
Amy was huddled in the window seat, wrapped in a…
About the Author
Other Books by Alexandra Benedict
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Hawkins Family Tree
Chapter 1
London, 1826
“I think he wants to stab us, Eddie.”
Edmund Hawkins set down the glass of gin and eyed the ne’er-do-well with a baleful expression. The bearded ruffian puffed out his chest in anticipation of a brawl; however, he quickly slunk off under the younger seaman’s glare.
Edmund might be four-and-twenty years of age, but he had lived a life as hard and dangerous as any cracks-man or murderer in the flash house, and his deadly stare—and meaty fists—proved it.
“He won’t stab us,” Edmund said with quiet confidence. “He’s changed his mind.”
Quincy chortled. He rubbed his eyes, red and swollen with fatigue. “We must be getting old. There was a time we would have started a scuffle with a brute twice our size.”
“Aye, I remember.” Edmund studied his brother, two years his junior. Quincy’s mussed, curly black hair and dark blue eyes matched Edmund’s own visage, yet the men’s temperaments differed considerably. “Perhaps we’re wiser now.”
Quincy humphed and tapped his thumb in an impatient manner across the grimy tabletop.
“You’re restless,” said Edmund.
“Aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m home now.”
Edmund had entered the notorious public house, filled with all sorts of scheming criminals, putting the stresses at sea behind him. It was in the notorious public house he was most contented, for there was no hypocrisy within the establishment, just life in gruesome detail. It was where he belonged.
“What’s there to be restless about?” he wondered.
“Everything.” Quincy rubbed his tanned chin. He glanced at the table, then back at his kin. “Do you think we’ve made a mistake?”
Edmund understood his brother’s meaning, for he had wondered the same thought himself for many months now.
“I dunno. Maybe.”
Quincy sighed. “It’s not how I imagined it to be.”
Six months patrolling the coast of West Africa as privateers in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron had not produced the desired results for adventures. The endless, uneventful patrols stripped a mariner of all enthusiasm and spirit. The heavy rains and tremendous heat maintained the body in a constant state of discomfort. And when a ship was spotted, heavy in the water with her human cargo, there was often nothing they could do about it, even with a letter of marque authorizing them to stop any vessel suspected of slaving, for most British ships traveled under foreign papers and raised foreign flags, preventing the seamen from legally boarding them and confiscating the slaves.
Edmund swigged the gin. He remembered the first time he had sighted a British slaver. He remembered the thrill of the battle as the enemy vessel had put up a valiant fight to keep her precious cargo. She had lost, however. Edmund, Quincy, and a few other tars had boarded the ship as the prize crew, and had prepared to sail her into Freetown, where an Admiralty Prize Court had been established to deal with the illegal trade…but when he’d first entered the slave decks to release the shackled captives, he had been overwhelmed by the gruesome images: images that haunted him still.
“It can’t be guns and glory all the time, I suppose.” Edmund moved the glass across the table in an absentminded fashion. “We should enjoy the respite. We’ll have to set sail again in a few weeks.”
“I can’t sit here anymore.” Quincy lifted from his chair. “I’m off to my favorite haunt. Care to join me?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Quincy departed from the flash house in quick strides.
Edmund frowned. He was worried about his younger brother. Quincy’s favorite haunt was the opium den, and ever since he had tasted the seductive smoke from the Orient, about a year ago, he had grown more and more attached to the substance.
Edmund downed the rest of the gin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The door opened and the room soon filled with other nefarious characters.
He watched the spry figures order a round of spirits from the barkeep. The level of noise inside the public house increased dramatically, and it wasn’t difficult to overhear the men’s boisterous exchanges:
“A den o’ sin, ye say?”
“The most wi’ed in London.”
“Where is it?”
“Cove’ent Garden. There’s a coat o’ arms wiv a bull’s head above the door.”
“Well, what’s it li’e inside the club, ye ol’ bugger?”
“How the bleedin’ ’ell should I know?” He pointed at his coarse features. “Can’t ye see me blag eye?”
“Oh, it’s fer gen’lm’n.”
“Aye, the gatekeeper thought me a mudlark and trounced me.”
A barmaid delivered the ordered drinks then.
“Fanny ’ere will get ye a cold fish to put o’er that blag eye, ’iggins.”
Higgins snorted. “I’ll just get me wife to sit on it.”
The men guffawed.
The jaded Edmund half listened to the gossip
, for there were many such establishments within the city, and all boasted similar lurid entertainments. However, the clubs tended to exaggerate their sinful amusements in the hopes of luring rich, young, and bored aristocrats within their walls. A fancy whorehouse might be a “den o’ sin,” but the most wicked in London? Edmund doubted the claim. And yet his brother had deserted him for more insalubrious pursuits, and he had little else to occupy his time.
With an air of ennui, Edmund hoisted his big frame from the rickety chair and departed the flash house amid the curious stares and penetrating looks of the shifty patrons. He entered the dark and impoverished Buckeridge Street, making his way toward Drury Lane and then on to Covent Garden, where the notorious club was allegedly located.
A thick, greenish fog choked the soiled thoroughfare even more as Edmund moved through the squalid, seedy part of the city. He passed the late-night muffin seller and baked-potato vendor, the cheesemonger and child prostitute. He passed their worn and cheerless faces, guarding his pockets and his throat.
As he neared Covent Garden, gas lamps illuminated his path, but the district at night was no less unsavory than the rookeries, for it was close to the river Thames and inspired all sorts of illicit activity under the cloak of darkness.
It was an odd configuration that the rich and the poor abided next to one another in such close proximity, that one sordid street lay beside its affluent counterpart. Edmund had always marveled at the juxtaposition. It made his own segue from the underworld into respectable society all the more comfortable, and thus all the more deceitful.
Edmund moved through the district, a marketplace during the day, brimming with vendors, and a haunt in the evening for the demimonde, who prowled the famous Royal Opera House steps in search of coin and companionship.
He observed the surrounding structures, seeking the insignia that marked the site of the secret club, and soon located the blazon. He stopped at the foot of the clean-swept steps and gazed at the tall edifice. The architecture was classical in style, the windows masked with heavy drapery, permitting thin beams of light to pierce the glass.
Edmund listened for any sound of revelry coming from inside the building, but the spring night was still. He shrugged and mounted the three stone steps that directed patrons to an imposing front door of paneled wood, flanked by Doric columns. He gripped the chilled brass knocker and pounded on the wood.
A minute passed before the heavy door peeled open on its sturdy hinges and a robust figure appeared in silhouette. The gatekeeper took one look at Edmund’s homely attire and promptly shut the door with a resounding smack.
Edmund’s fingers twitched and he thumped on the door once more with greater vigor.
The same surly gatekeeper parted the wood.
Edmund announced in his most officious tone: “Edmund Hawkins.”
The gatekeeper lifted a brow. It was clear the ornery sentry had recognized the young seaman’s familial name, so Edmund refrained from listing his relations with any further pomp, which he loathed to do.
The gatekeeper stepped aside and mutely extended his arm, welcoming Edmund inside the high-end establishment.
As soon as Edmund set foot within the “den o’ sin,” he concluded his first assumption had been correct: it was not the most wicked establishment in London. He followed the silent sentry through the quiet passageway and entered the foyer with its sweeping high ceiling, the roof capped with a domed and painted fresco.
He scaled the winding steps after his guide, the carpet a rich red fabric. The balustrade was composed of polished wood and intricate wrought iron. The walls were papered in fine yellow print and interspersed with silky, raspberry red panels. At the top of the stairs were a series of elaborate columns and daring artwork.
Edmund passed through the tunnel. The interior was a feast for the senses. The ornate furnishings gleamed under the resplendent chandeliers, making the environment scintillate. It was meant to bedazzle the wits and to strip a wealthy rake from his blunt. It was no more scandalous or provocative than any of the other establishments Edmund had ventured into during the past five years he had lived in the city.
The gatekeeper paused beside a set of white double doors with gold trim.
Edmund listened to the merriment seeping through the slim space between the wood. He almost yawned at the tedium of another conventional gentlemen’s club. He even considered turning away from the doors and leaving the sentry flummoxed, for it inspired more amusement in his reflections than the thought of a “den o’ sin.” However, he shrugged off the lethargy and allowed the gatekeeper to part the double doors with a measure of fanfare.
The room teemed with cigar smoke and masculine energy, instrumental music and exotic incense. There were tables scattered everywhere, filled with jolly patrons, and the pretty serving girls kept the spirits flowing. Layer upon layer of brilliant silk fabrics swooped from the ceiling and cascaded along the walls and onto the thick-carpeted floor. The room was peppered with palms and other tropical flowers. Satin cushions purled with gold thread bedecked the seats and divans and even the floor. The decor smacked of a desert harem from a storybook. The only odd feature in the vast space was the stage at the front of the room, cloaked with sensuous red velvet drapes.
“Good evening…sir.”
A woman paused and looked him over with a critical eye, clearly convinced the gatekeeper was being remiss in his duty to keep out the riffraff.
“Mr. Hawkins,” he returned stiffly.
Her beautiful, dark brown eyes mellowed and she even offered him a smile. “I am your hostess, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”
She was about five-and-thirty years of age, with a relatively smooth complexion and fine features. She had darker skin, and her accent placed her from a far-away part of the world. Her name might be an elaborate pseudonym…or perhaps it was her real name, for she radiated with pride, and he suspected she took great pleasure in her noble appellation, even if it was unfamiliar to his ear.
“Welcome to the Pleasure Palace.”
He almost rolled his eyes at the tawdry epithet.
“I’ll have one of my serving girls take your order.” She slipped her hand through his arm and gently guided him deeper into the establishment. “We have the finest selection of spirits in Town.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled. It was an amorous smile. She wasn’t out to seduce him; he sensed that intuitively. She was out to caress and lull his better judgment, though, with her artful ministrations, to make him more pliable to her desire: the surrender of his blunt.
“I hope to see you here often, Mr. Hawkins.” She stroked his elbow. “Enjoy the entertainment. We aim to please our guests.”
A piquant perfume rested heavily in the air as she departed from him, her flowing skirts swishing seductively with each measured step.
It was the feeling of squander that made Edmund’s nose pucker, though: the squander of time, money, and even good sense. Yet what else was there for a wealthy gentleman to do with his time? He stood inside the familiar void and resigned himself to a few hours of squander.
“Have you come looking for salvation?”
Edmund slowly turned around and spotted the stranger seated amid the shadows in the corner of the room. There was a low-burning candle on the table; it illuminated his cheeks and brow, leaving only the recesses of his eyes in darkness.
Edmund frowned at the cryptic question.
The stranger expounded with “From your tired life?” A cloud of smoke hovered above his head as he sucked on a cigar. He gestured to an empty chair.
Edmund settled into the padded seat. “What makes you think I’m seeking salvation?”
“You’ve not come into the club with the same jovial step as the other young bucks; your eyes are empty.”
Edmund wasn’t bothered by the gloomy observation. He ordered a glass of gin from a passing serving girl before he returned his attention to his mysterious companion.
The stranger was about forty years
of age. He sported soft brown hair smattered with slim silver streaks. He was dressed in swanky attire, top-quality fabrics, and polished brass buttons, but he had unfastened his cuff links and relaxed his cravat, telling Edmund he didn’t give a jot about his public appearance.
There was only one part of him that remained in secret: his eyes. Edmund could not see his eyes, even from his new vantage point at the round table, for the shadows masked the deep-set pools. He sensed the man’s penetrating gaze, though.
“Is that why you’ve come here?” wondered Edmund.
“There is no salvation for me.”
Edmund withheld a snort at the melodramatic retort. He rubbed his chin, convinced the nob was searching for a saphead to listen to his groans about life—like his valet’s failure to polish his boots. Edmund wasn’t willing to offer him an ear, though.
“Then why have you come to the club?” said Edmund.
“For the same reason you’ve come to the club…to forget.”
“And does being here make you forget?”
“No.”
Edmund thought as much. He looked around the room for another place to sit, but the serving girl returned with the beverage then, and he wasn’t inclined to move away from his seat now that he’d a drink in hand. He paid her a coin.
“It won’t help you, you know.”
Edmund took a swig of the gin. “What won’t help me?”
“The drink.” He nursed the cigar in his bejeweled hand. “It won’t help you to forget.”
“It’s all worthless, is it?” He chuckled at the theatrics. “The club? The drink? Is there no escape from one’s ‘tired’ life?”
“There is escape.”
“Oh?”
“In death.”
Edmund snorted at the smattering.
“You laugh at death?”
He peered at the stranger with a sardonic expression. “I laugh at men who speak with courage about death, but who have never faced it.”
“Hmm…and you’ve faced death?”
“I have.”
Edmund downed the rest of the gin and smacked the empty glass on the table, but the spirits had yet to stifle the dark memories in his head.
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